After York
by smarscosi
Summary: Picking up after Branson and Sybil parted in York, this story pieces together imagined missing moments from the Sybil/Branson story  with appearances by plenty of other Downton characters, of course .
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This story picks up where an earlier story I wrote, In the Early War, left off. _

The first days at the training college passed quickly as Sybil settled into her quarters, learned the names of her fellow nurse trainees and began her basic education. She had decided to tell no one that she was Lady Sybil, self-conscious for the first time of how such a title might be perceived by others. She was almost immediately glad of her decision, remembering the way the head nurse's face had lit up when Sybil had suggested that she'd rather be known simply as 'Sybil' or 'Nurse Crawley.' The head nurse had plenty of experience by then dealing with the coddled daughters of the aristocracy and was pleased that this one had seemed so different. She had been good to her word and told none of the nurses, trainees, or doctors of Nurse Crawley's background. Once or twice Sybil had nearly given herself away, as when she struggled with how to open or close the shutters or when the instructions for making a poultice had included a directive to "knead it as when making bread." Each time Sybil had breathed deeply and waited for someone to correct her, always rewarding them with a broad smile and words of thanks.

Sybil made friends quickly and her closest friend was a woman named Caroline whose room was two doors down from the small quarters Sybil shared with the very pleasant, if quiet, Emily. Over tea the first week Caroline shared that her desire to become a nurse stemmed from her own brother's death earlier in the war.

"I just couldn't stop thinking that he didn't have to die," Caroline said, bitterly. "If he'd been an officer or a gentleman, someone would have tended to him, but instead they let him die on a filthy floor."

Sybil was shocked. "You don't know that, about them letting him die because he was an enlisted soldier, I mean."

Caroline laughed.

"Come now, you don't really believe that, do you? They take care of their own. When a working class lad like my brother is injured or killed, they figure there are a thousand more just like him. They'll move heaven and earth to save the son of some bloody duke, as if we haven't got enough of those," Caroline nearly spat the last sentence.

Sybil nearly winced, and was glad she had told no one of her family's background.

"I think that's terrible," Sybil began, "the government, the military, the doctors, they should provide the same care for all of the men. After all, they're fighting for the same king and country."

Caroline agreed, then moved on to lighter subjects. The conversation remained with Sybil, however, and when she sat down to write her first letter to Branson, she included a mention of it.

_Dear Branson,_

_I trust this letter finds you well and that you keep your word and not leave Downton in my absence. It is hard for me to believe only one week has passed since we parted. The coursework is demanding and the men we see each day have suffered the most dreadful injuries, but I feel good knowing that I will be able to ease their pain and help the war effort, however small my part may be. I am so thankful to Daisy and Anna for teaching me a bit of cooking and cleaning before I left home. I've told no one here of my background and goodness knows I would have been found out by now if I'd not known to put a kettle on or make the toast! As it is I've struggled with such simple tasks as fastening the shutters and kneading a poultice; I really must learn to do more of these chores when I return home. I have made friends with several of the other trainee nurses, especially one called Caroline who told me that enlisted men do not receive the same care as officers and gentlemen. Can you imagine? I'm sure you can, actually, but I couldn't. I think it is good for me learn these things so I can understand other causes in addition to the women's vote. _

_I am faithfully your friend,_

_Sybil Crawley_

Anna sighed when she opened her letter from Lady Sybil and found the envelope for Mr. Branson. Her own letter was kind enough; Lady Sybil thanked her profusely for teaching her how to make a bed and sweep a floor and described her life at the training college. Yet, she also knew that the letter had likely only been written so as to include the decidedly longer letter for the chauffeur. Anna had agreed, as always, to pass letters along to him, but she wished for a moment that it were possible for Lady Sybil to write directly to Mr. Branson without having to go through her. At least Mary had asked her to order the car for a drive into Ripon later today and so Anna had a reason to set out for the garage, Lady Sybil's letter safely tucked into her apron pocket.

"Good morning, Mr. Branson," Anna called, entering the garage.

"Good morning, Anna."

"Lady Mary asked me to order the car for this afternoon. She needs you to drive her to Ripon. Also, a letter's come for you in the post. From Lady Sybil."

Branson smiled and reached for it.

"She was a bit worried about being away from home for so long when I left her. I hope she's written that she's settled in well."

"She said as much to me, Mr. Branson, so I'd say, yes, she's doing well there. It's quiet now that she's gone, isn't it?"

"Yes, she's certainly a bit…livelier than Lady Mary and Lady Edith," he laughed.

Anna could see that he missed her and wished she could acknowledge this. Instead, she did the next best thing. "I best get back to the house, Mr. Branson, but I'm happy to post a letter to Lady Sybil whenever you'd like to send a reply. Good day."

"Good day, Anna, and thank you."

She nodded, just a quick incline of the chin, and they parted. As she walked back to the house she couldn't help but think, again, that he was peculiar. Just last night he'd gotten all of the staff stirred up about the war, arguing that America was sure to enter any week now, and he'd be the first to cheer their entry while Mr. Carson and William held the position that the countries in Europe should be left to settle their own affairs.

"Because we've done such a job of that so far!" Branson had exclaimed irritably before snapping his paper shut and excusing himself for the evening.

She could not imagine what Lady Sybil saw in him, but then again, Lady Sybil loved a good argument and in that sense she had no doubt that Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil brought out the best in each other.

No shortage of letters arrived for Sybil at the training college, as her mother, Mary, Edith, Granny, and even Cousin Isobel wrote regularly, but it was the envelope bearing Anna's tight script that caused her heart to beat a little faster at the end of her third week. She had not heard from Branson yet and hoped every day that he might finally write. Opening Anna's letter she was rewarded with an additional envelope, which she knew would be from him.

_Milady,_

_You will continue to find me at Downton for some time to come, so do not worry on that account. So you haven't told the other nurses you're LADY Sybil Crawley? I will admit that you never fail to surprise me, and for that I am thankful. Life would be a bit dull if we could predict one another's next thoughts and actions too frequently, would it not? From your letter, it sounds as if you have found yourself a good friend and wise counsel in Caroline. I am also glad she is opening your eyes to the ways of this war in new and different ways than you knew. As regards women's voting rights, you might be pleased to know that Asquith as resigned as Prime Minister and has been replaced by David Lloyd George. It looks as if you and all others who have worked for the vote may yet have your way. _

_Faithfully yours,_

_T. Branson_

Sybil laid the letter in her lap and smiled. She didn't know what she had expected, certainly when she thought rationally she knew he would not have written in anger, but nevertheless she was relieved that the tone of his letter was so _normal_. She opened her blue book, gently turning the care-worn pages and allowing her mind to focus on him for another minute before closing it and sliding this new letter between its pages.

"Sybil, dear, you look quite pleased with yourself this afternoon. Have you received happy news from home?" Caroline inquired gently, entering Sybil's room. Her roommate Emily looked up kindly, a bit ashamed for not noticing her roommate's good fortune.

"Yes, Caroline, I suppose I have." Sybil smiled shyly.

Seeing the pile of unopened letters on the bed next to Sybil, Emily startled a bit.

"But, my, it doesn't even look like you've opened your mail!" Emily exclaimed.

"Oh those. I've not opened those yet. Just another one I was waiting for." Sybil regretted the words as soon as she'd said them.

"Did you receive a letter from your beau?" Emily asked.

"Well, I, I mean, I haven't got a beau," Sybil stammered. "It was a letter from a friend."

Emily and Caroline raised their eyebrows at one another.

"Are you sure about that?" Caroline pressed.

Sybil felt her cheeks flush and decided to them half of the truth.

"I, well, you see, he's my friend, my very dear friend. I think perhaps that he might like it if he were my beau, but I think it's best, I mean, I think that we're better as friends. I don't think…no, I know my family would not approve."

"You don't sound very convincing," Caroline observed while at the same time Emily asked, "Why ever wouldn't they approve?"

"He's Irish," Sybil said plainly. She wasn't sure it was true that her parents would object to an otherwise suitable Irishman, but many for many of the English, Irish blood would be a reason to object to a match and at that moment Sybil wanted the conversation to end.

"What's his name?" Caroline asked.

"Tom. Tom Branson."

"Well, I wish you and your Mr. Branson all the luck in the world. God knows there's enough sadness and death these days to last us all many lifetimes. We need all the love we can muster," Caroline's words came out with such force that they took Sybil by surprise. With them, however, the conversation ended and Caroline bid the two younger women a good evening as she prepared for her overnight nursing duty.

The days slid by more and more quickly after that until at last it was Christmas Eve. When Sybil wrote to tell her mother that she would be working on Christmas she did not tell her that she had volunteered to do so. In truth she was not ready to return home yet but also she saw her sacrifice as one more good work on the part of the war. So many of the young women had brothers or beaus in the army, men who would either be returning on leave or would not be, thereby leaving an empty place around the table. Although she knew her parents would miss her, and also Matthew, she could not help but feel that many of the other families would feel the loss more sharply and so at last she had volunteered to work. Her mother had been displeased upon learning that Sybil would not return to Downton for Christmas, but Robert, Isobel, and even the Dowager Countess had rallied to convince her that she was overreacting. Besides, Robert had argued, with petrol harder and harder to come by, and with her course ending in January, it didn't make sense to ask Branson to drive all the way to York to bring Sybil home for a short Christmas visit.

Shortly after Christmas she received a card in the mail. It was unsigned, but its brief note gave the sender away immediately.

_Last year a book, this year a card, next year will milady receive anything at all?_

After the holidays the training sped by in a rush as the nurses studied for their examinations and worked longer hours at the hospital. By now they were virtually full-fledged nurses and were called upon as such to deal with the freshly wounded and even to assist with the occasional operation – or amputation. Sybil had been sick after witnessing her first amputation, but as with so many things that seem so horrible at first exposure, she became accustomed to even this ghastly procedure. She had a natural bedside manner and it was evident that not only did the doctor's appreciate her calm and competent manner, but the patients appreciated her reassuring smile and steady hands. She began to think that maybe, just maybe, nursing could be a real profession, not just a way to help the war effort. But first she must help the war effort.

Branson was struck immediately that the Lady Sybil he met at York in January was not the same Lady Sybil he had parted from in November. She seemed calmer, yet harder, more world weary in every way.

"Branson, I'm so glad to see you," she said warmly.

"Nurse Crawley, now, isn't it?" he teased.

"Oh, but it is. Hard won, too."

With that she launched into a recap of her two months at the training college, pausing only while Branson started the car, then continuing from back seat. She told him about Caroline and Emily, the chores they'd all had to do, the various doctors and patients who had left and impression on her and, not least, the amputations. To say he was impressed would have been to understate his emotions entirely. Listening to her describe her days – arising at 5 to start the fires and have breakfast, coursework and nursing shifts beginning at 7 and lasting for 13 hours with only short breaks for luncheon and tea, then dinner and reading lessons until 10 o'clock – left him utterly exhausted. She was a woman with a purpose, and while the things she had witnessed had been more savage than he could imagine, she seemed truly happy to him for the first time since the war began. He hoped there was still a place for him in her new world.

Arriving at Downton, the entire family stood ready to meet the new Nurse Crawley. As she stepped from the car she gripped Branson's hand firmly and said, "I'll need to be at the hospital by 7 tomorrow. Can you bring the car around at 6:30?"

"Yes, milady. 6:30 tomorrow. I'll be here." With that Branson drove the car into the garage, pleased to know for once when he would see her again – and that it would not be two months hence.


	2. Chapter 2

If Branson had been pleased to think he would see more of Lady Sybil now that she was back at Downton - and needing the car almost daily, no less - he was soon disabused of this notion. Her most frequent schedule had her at the hospital by 7, remaining there until dinner, or sometimes later. On these days, she would nearly drag herself from bed at 6. Initially Anna had risen earlier as well, preparing a tray and starting the fire before rousing Sybil for the day. Quickly, though, Sybil had dispensed with that, her guilt over Anna's shortened sleep allowance winning out over her desire for warmth on cold late-winter mornings. Instead, she had begun relying on the alarm clock she had first purchased in York and now woke to the sound of the bell rather than Anna's gentle voice. As a result, she was frequently tired, cold, and hungry when she met Branson in the mornings; she was happy to listen to him prattle on, but rarely contributed to the conversation these days. The evenings were little better, as her physical exhaustion then stemmed from hour after ceaseless hour on her feet, and she was often emotionally exhausted as well. He did not know why she never asked Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Patmore to leave a little something for her in the morning, but at least this he could remedy himself by wrapping a dinner roll from the servant's hall each evening and offering it to her for breakfast. The first time he had done this she looked upon it as a traveler in the desert might look upon an oasis and consumed it with such and unladylike relish that he couldn't help but smile.

"Branson, I have to thank you for that," she said, brushing away the last of the crumbs.

"It was nothing, milady. You always complain of such hunger in the morning and there are always rolls left after dinner, so I thought you might like one for your breakfast."

"I'm afraid I've been an awful bore since I've returned from York, haven't I?" she asked lightly.

"You work very hard and you're very tired. I can't expect you'd be too energetic." When he was honest with himself he knew this was the truth. Nevertheless, he couldn't help being disappointed every time she got in the car with barely a nod and rode silently to her destination.

"I suppose you're right, but I do so miss our conversations."

They arrived at the hospital just then and as Branson helped her from the car each felt the other grip their hand more tightly than usual, as though offering an implicit acknowledgement that all was well.

Sybil found a pleasure in working as a nurse that she had never known before; it confirmed for her that she'd been correct two years before in envying Gwen's position as a secretary. Many of the volunteer nurses worked only three or four days a week, and then for no more than eight hours at a time; in contrast, Sybil volunteered for as many shifts as possible. It was rare for her to work fewer than six days in a week, and she almost always worked in 12-hour blocks. As a result, her skills as a nurse had come along tremendously, such that while many of the nurses tended to basic tasks such as dispensing pills, changing linens, and applying new bandages, Sybil quickly became the nurse of choice for more complicated procedures when a doctor needed a surgical assistant, or even for seeing to the newly arrived men whose wounds were often still packed with the mud and blood of the battlefield. It was often with great reluctance that she left the hospital in the evening; more than once Branson had parked the car and sat waiting until she finally emerged from the hospital with a quick apology and summary of her day.

Branson knew Lady Grantham would be cross with him as soon as the words had left his mouth, but he couldn't help it; was he the only person who saw how much this work meant to her? Of course, he should have thought that Lady Sybil might not be as forthcoming about her nursing duties with her family as she was with him, but he had not considered this, had simply spoken what was on his mind and so, as Lady Sybil reluctantly left the hospital, he attempted to explain or apologize in case he had said anything earlier that might cause trouble for her when she arrived home.

"I've a bit of an apology to make, milady."

"I know you came to get me as instructed, Branson, I'm not angry with you."

"It's not that, milady. Your mother was concerned that the hospital was working you like a, like a pack horse in a mine, I believe were her exact words. I told her I believed you liked it, although I don't think she appreciated what I said."

"A pack horse in a mine! Really, she can be so impossible!"

"So you aren't upset, milady?"

"Well, yes, yes, I am, but not with you."

* * *

><p>She never mentioned anything about this conversation again, which he hoped was because her mother had not spoken of it after she'd returned home. Cora had been cross, but it was to Robert she had fumed, and not Sybil.<p>

"He said he thinks she enjoys it! I can't decide which is worse - that he would speak to me that way, or that she might enjoy it. And how would he know? Unless she has said as much to him, but why would she? He's the chauffeur! Are you listening to me, Robert."

Robert looked up from his paper at the sound of his name.

"Robert?"

"Yes, darling?"

"You didn't hear a thing I said! I said…oh, never mind. Sybil should be home soon; I've asked Carson to ring the dinner gong as soon as she arrives."

Had Robert been listening, he may have been less dismissive of the entire incident, but he was not listening and Cora knew better than to raise the matter directly with Sybil.

* * *

><p>"Nurse Crawley, I must commend you. You've become a fine nurse." Dr. Clarkson's tone was unusually kind.<p>

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson. I feel I've found a calling."

"I can only hope that may be true. Hospitals will need nurses long after this war is over, you know."

"Yes, of course. For now, though, I'm happy to do my part for the war effort."

"Very good. Nurse Crawley, we are expecting several ambulances of wounded men to arrive tomorrow – these men were wounded in an offensive on the Western Front. Judging from the numbers, it seems to have been a very costly offensive. Many of them have been very badly wounded, as badly as any of the men who have come into our care thus far. May I count on you to meet the ambulances with me tomorrow?"

"Yes, Dr. Clarkson, you may."

"Very well. Good day."

The next day had indeed brought dozens of badly wounded men into the hospital and with worse wounds than Sybil had seen. Her memory flashed back to the first amputation she assisted in York, but she quickly pulled herself back into the present, mentally assessing what was to be done for each of the men. Those men who came in with wounds of unknown origin were her first priority, and she spent much of the morning cutting off uniforms, and then locating and cleansing wounds, in one case extracting shrapnel from a young lieutenant's shoulder. She found it laughable, then, that her mother had sent Branson with a picnic hamper, as though she would have the time – or the inclination – to eat on a day like this. She really did not have time for this, and the second time he'd encouraged her to take the basket she had snapped at him in frustration.

"Really, Branson, I don't have anywhere to put that basket."

"But won't you be hungry, milady?"

"Have you looked around you? Even if I were to be hungry – and I don't believe I will – this is hardly the time or place to fix oneself a picnic!"

"Perhaps I could leave it in Dr. Clarkson's office then?"

"Branson, really, I don't care what you do with it. I need to get back to my work. Please."

He had stood dumbly for a moment or two longer, then quietly retreated from the hospital, the basket still firmly in his possession. He would have been shocked by the way she'd spoken to him, had he been able to push from his mind for just one moment the images of the broken men – shot, battered, bloodied men – who had poured into the hospital in just his brief time there. Of course it was worse than she could have imagined; it was worse than anything he could have imagined. In truth, he didn't believe he could do as Lady Sybil did now: awaken every morning to the casualties of war, minister to the bodies and wounds of those who might yet live, and minister to the souls of those who would not. He remembered his horror when she had been injured at the count; his immediate concern was for, but he had been horrified by her blood and even knew he had only mustered the strength to act as he had because she was in danger. Too, he remembered the time as a boy when a friend had been injured one afternoon in a fall from a horse. He'd cringed at the sight of his friend's injuries and had to look away; yet those injuries were child's play, quite literally, to what Lady Sybil faced each day. If she can be frustratingly stubborn or coy, he thought, I also must remember that she has greater reserves of strength than I could have imagined.

As she climbed into the car that night, she was especially somber.

"They won't all live, you know. I don't believe even most of them will this time."

He nodded.

"It's terribly pathetic, really. Such fine, young lives finished before they've even begun. As they say, it's old men who make war, but young men who fight it. And I am so very, very tired of war, Branson."

"I think you're very brave, milady."

"Brave? How so?"

"To care for the men as you do. I couldn't do it."

Her mood seemed to brighten and she laughed, perhaps imagining him in a nurse's habit.

"When I was young, my brother and I were riding with a friend. We only had two horses; I rode one and my brother and friend, his name was Seamus, they rode the other. We were galloping down the lane and their horse stumbled a bit. Nothing serious, at least not for the horse, but it knocked Seamus right off and onto the lane. He landed badly and one arm broke in a terrible way, so that it hung at an awful, unnatural angle, and he also broke his nose, which commenced to bleed. I couldn't look at him, so I rode for help while my brother stayed with him."

"That's terrible."

"Well it was and it wasn't. He was fine in the end, but my point, milady, is that every day you face things that many men – myself included – wouldn't like to see. And you don't have to. So I think it's very brave of you."

"Thank you, Branson. I, of course, think the lady ambulance drivers are braver than any nurse, but I suppose we all have a part to play."

"They may be braver, but you're less likely to be shot working as a nurse in the town hospital than ferrying wounded men from the front."

"How right you. And I shouldn't like to be shot, especially not as I've seen the results!"

Her smile was broad as she stepped from the car into the drive. Mr. Carson never would have guessed that of all the savage days she had spent at the hospital, this had been the worst.

"Lady Sybil, you look in a fine mood this evening," Mr. Carson was accustomed until now to a reflective, tired woman emerging from the car and was surprised by the smiling face that greeted him.

"Yes, Mr. Carson. I've had a hard day, but I am thankful for my work, my family, and my life. Sometimes I forget all that is right in this world when so much is wrong."

"Very right, milady."

The heavy door closed behind them and Sybil made her way upstairs towards a hot bath and a soft bed, very grateful indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Branson, I've been waiting. Where have you been?" Sybil was agitated, having waited some 20 minutes in front of the hospital for the car. Fortunately they were not expecting anyone for dinner tonight and no one would notice she was a bit later than usual.

"I'm sorry, milady, I lost track of the time." Branson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, tugging his cap down around his ears.

"But where were you?" Sybil noticed he looked a bit disheveled and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"You don't look like you've come from Downton. Or even from the shops." The wheels were turning and there would be no stopping her now.

"Goodness, Branson, you were at the demonstration, weren't you? Oh, Branson, how could you? You know Papa will have your head if he finds out!"

"Then he shan't find out, milady, shall he?" Branson was irritated at being called out like a school boy and allowed his irritation to show in his tone.

"Perhaps not this time but, Branson, you must promise me no more protests. Please. Promise me that."

"I will do no such thing."

"Really, Branson! You can be so impossible. You'll be sacked if he finds out!"

"That would appear to be my concern, milady, and my concern alone."

He had no sooner spoken the words than they arrived at Downton and ceased speaking. She threw open the door in a fury, charging out of the car before Branson could help her down. Carson exchanged a look with Branson who merely shrugged and offered, "I'd say she's had a bad day at the hospital." He shrunk away from Anna's steely gaze bearing into him, though, confirming for her that the hospital was not the cause of Lady Sybil's agitation. As Branson drove the car around to the garage, Anna tore off after her mistress, taking the stairs two-at-a-time so to catch Lady Sybil and try to calm her before she said or did something she might regret at dinner that evening.

"Anna, I swear, he can be so impossible. He makes me so angry sometimes."

"Dr. Clarkson, milady? Why what happened?" It was always better to play the innocent, and Anna knew the story would come out in its own good time. Mary and Edith were visiting Rosamund in London so they had some time alone before Sybil would be expected downstairs.

"No, not Dr. Clarkson. Branson."

"And what has the chauffeur done to upset you so badly today, milady?"

"Oh, Anna, promise not to tell mama or papa."

"Your secret is safe with me, milady, I can promise you that."

And so the story came out. It began with the row over the afternoon's protest, but before Sybil could stop herself or Anna knew what was happening, Sybil told the entire story, from the confession in York to the exchanged Christmas presents, the illicit picnics, and even the stolen slice of cake (so that's where the plate went off to, Anna thought, poor Mrs. Hughes has been looking for the lost plate for months). For years now Anna had carried the secret of Lady Mary's dead Turk and for nearly as long she had harbored suspicions about Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson. Yet, nothing could have prepared her for Lady Sybil's tale. As she sat silently, trying to process what she had been told, she could only think "What will happen when she learns he's been called up?," for only that morning Branson had received his call up papers in the post.

"You'll not give me away, will you Anna?"

"No, milady, your secret is safe with me. But, I think if you want it to remain a secret – if you don't want others to be suspicious, I mean – I think you need to be more careful than you were this afternoon. Mr. Carson was quite surprised by your behavior. You can't have him, or anyone else, thinking you are quarreling with Mr. Branson. It wouldn't be right and, if you're worried about him leaving, he can't be seen to not get along with your ladyship. That would certainly be the end of his employment."

"Thank you, Anna, and I believe you are correct. As usual, your advice is very wise."

And my burden is very heavy, thought Anna, and my burden is very heavy.

He tossed and turned, trying to sleep. He had not meant to tell her about his cousin. At least not in that way. Now she was angry again, but so was he, really. Her words bounced around his mind: "not at our best in Ireland, not at our best in Ireland, not at our best…" For all she had seen of war, she could still be quite naïve sometimes. More and more they had these arguments; it seemed they spent half their time arguing and the other half apologizing. Of course, the tension between them was such that he shouldn't have expected anything else. Sleep finally came, but by then the eastern sky was a shade lighter than the west; it took several cups of coffee before he was fully awake the next morning and he was grateful it was Sunday and the family and the servants were away at church. Normally he would have driven them, but after weeks of soggy, bleak weather the skies had finally cleared and Lord Grantham sent word the night before that they'd not need the car. Lost in his newspaper, gulping down throat-fulls of coffee, he'd thought he was alone and was surprised to look up and see Anna standing near him.

"Good morning, Anna."

"Good morning, Mr. Branson."

"I think we're the only ones who've not gone to church this morning."

"I believe Mrs. Patmore is in the kitchen finishing the afternoon meal but otherwise, yes, I believe you're right." She hesitated.

"Mr. Branson, I have something for you. Before I give it to you, I'd just like to say that, that, I understand and if you ever need to talk, well, I'm here. Sometimes it's nice to have someone just to listen."

She reached into her pocket then and handed him a piece of paper, neatly folded into quarters. He opened it slowly, then slid it across the table for her to read.

_Dear Branson,_

_I'm very sorry to hear about your cousin, truly. I wish you had said something at the time so that you didn't have to bear your loss alone for so long. And I'm sorry for what I said about the British in Ireland, as well. I only wish that you weren't always so angry, as it seems you are ripe for a fight every day now and I miss how you used to be. _

_Friends again?_

_Lady Sybil_

"Would you like to take a walk, Anna? We should have a bit of time before they return from church."

"Certainly."

They were hardly away from the house before he asked, "So she told you? About the British in Ireland, I mean."

"Yes."

"I don't know what came over me, speaking to her that way."

They walked quietly for a moment.

"Perhaps it's not my place to say, but she cried every night for a week after you received your papers, Mr. Branson. It's not easy for her, either."

He stopped and closed his eyes slowly.

"So you know." It was a statement this time, not a question.

"Yes, she told me the evening you were late to drive her from the hospital."

"How much did she tell you?"

"She told me enough."

"Did she tell you…what I said to her in York?"

"She told me that you loved her. And I think that's very brave of you. I only hope you know what you're doing."

"You won't say anything, will you, Anna?"

"I told her and I am telling you, your secret is safe with me. But while you might not control what's in your hearts, I've told her and I'll tell you, you must both do a better job of controlling what's in your heads. You know as well as I do, Mr. Branson, that the moment you're found out by anyone else, you'll be packed off to Ireland."

"Thank you, Anna, and please tell Lady Sybil that the answer to her question is yes." He fingered the letter she had given him and Anna nodded in understanding as they parted, she toward the servant's hall and he to the garage.

Anna knew. In a way it was a relief, really, and she had been so kind about it. He liked knowing he had an ally, for in many ways, the closer he had grown to Lady Sybil the more alone he had felt in the rest of the world. He certainly couldn't write a letter home to the effect of "Dear Ma, I'm in love with a _Lady_."

The fighting that summer was as fierce as any of the war, and the casualties mounted steadily. In mid-summer, as the Battle of Ypres raged yet again, Downton Abbey, like so many of England's great houses, had been converted into a convalescent home. The change meant that Sybil now spent more time at home, typically volunteering at the hospital only two or three days a week, compared to the six or even seven day weeks she had been working since returning from York. In many ways this had been her idea and so she tried to keep up a cheerful pretense when anyone mentioned how nice it was to be able to work at her home; in truth, she missed the real nursing duties terribly and chafed at spending so much time at home. Worse, she no longer needed the car to travel to the hospital each day, so she found fewer opportunities to converse with Branson than in the past. Occasionally she'd sneak out to the garage after dinner to see and talk to him and on one of these visits she had confided these feelings to him.

"I miss the hospital terribly some days, Branson. When I first began nursing, I didn't see how I could possibly do it. I may have told you, but I was sick after witnessing my first operation and I couldn't imagine seeing such wounds day after day. But I've rather grown to love the work, and bringing around a tray of drinks or checking bandages just isn't the same."

He nodded.

"Hospitals will still need nurses when the war ends, milady. Men might not be shot in Flanders, but there will still be plenty of people who'll fall off horses or have an accident at the farm or with their car. If it's what you love to do, I'm sure you can find a way."

They had chatted on, from nursing to America's entry into the war (although they both asked, why had the American soldiers not yet arrived to fight?), to the Bolshevik Revolution, to the growing hostilities in Ireland, the beginning of food rationing in the UK, and even the fashion designer Coco Chanel, whose fashion exploits ("profiteering," Branson declared derisively) cropped up in the papers from time to time.

"Oh, but Mary is just dying to own the latest Chanel. She met a friend in London who was just back from Deauville and Mary said the new styles are just _smashing._" Sybil had rolled her eyes at this last bit, causing Branson to chuckle.

"I'm sure Sir Richard would be happy to indulge her," Branson said, coming as close as he ever had to mocking a member of his employer's family. He knew how Sybil felt about the man, but in truth he had similar feelings toward Lady Mary and rather felt they deserved each other. It was common knowledge among the staff how she had kept Matthew waiting until his position was clear; despite their early misgivings, the staff had grown to genuinely like Matthew and felt the loss was entirely Mary's.

Eventually Sybil had headed back to the house, the late afternoon rays leaving streaks of gold across her back as she left the garage, regretting that every visit could not be this jolly.


	4. Chapter 4

As summer gave way to fall, the days shorter and cooler, the leaves falling in colorful heaps about the estate, Sybil noticed more tension returning to their relationship. Some days the Branson who greeted her was the kindly friend she had fallen in love with; other days, he was so tetchy that no sooner would she enter the garage than she would leave. She, too, was often moody, as the war dragged on and the toll her of nursing duties wore on her. Petrol was costlier than ever and increasingly difficult to come by; her father had denied her last several requests for the car and, on fair days, even expected she walk to the hospital. Although she had been displeased by her father's harsher attitude (What is the point of all these men in my house if you still insist on working at the hospital?" he had asked crossly), she had come to enjoy the walks to the hospital. Each day she took measure of the leaves: green-gold, then golden, deep orange, then floating through the air on their way to the ground where she trod over them. Just like my life, slipping away from green to gold, she thought one day, startled by her own mind. By November the leaves lay in heaps at her feet and the naked branches stood at attention, as though offering their own prayers skyward. It rained for two straight weeks that month, solid ropes of water whose misery was compounded by Sybil's own: a head cold of the likes she had known for many, many months. When the weather and her illness both finally cleared, Sybil snuck down the back stairs and through the servant's hall toward the garage at her first opportunity.

"Hello, Branson," she said, cheerily.

"Milady. How can I help you?"

"I've simply come to say hello."

"Thank you for that. Unfortunately, I'm quite busy this afternoon – no time for a social call."

His voice echoed from under the car. He had not even bothered to slide himself out. Yet, Sybil noticed that the day's papers were spread on the bench. It appeared he planned to have time to read the papers, so why not talk to her?

"I could come back," she offered.

"I'm afraid not today, milady."

Silence descended between them. After several moments this way, she turned and walked quietly from the garage, bumping into Anna as she entered through the servant's hall.

"Milady, you startled me!" Anna exclaimed, drawing her hand to her chest. She had been good and truly surprised.

"Anna, I think I'd like to look over my winter clothes. The days are getting colder and I may need some new things. Do you have time to help me?"

"Certainly. I've just to change my apron and I'll be right up."

Anna was good to her word and wasted no time making her way to Lady Sybil's room. This was a most unusual request from Lady Sybil; in truth, Anna didn't believe she'd ever made such a request before. Lady Mary, certainly, and Lady Edith occasionally, but not Lady Sybil. When Anna entered the room, expecting the wardrobe to be opened and her ladyship studying the winter clothes Anna had recently begun to bring down from storage, she instead found Lady Sybil pacing the floor, eyes downcast and slightly red.

"Is everything quite alright, milady?" Anna asked mildly. She had not prepared herself for the scene before her but of course a lady's maid, which more and more described Anna's work with every passing day, needed always to be ready for every eventuality.

"I just don't understand, Anna. He can be so heartless sometimes."

"Am I correct to assume that the 'he' you speak of is Mr. Branson?"

"Yes, Anna. Just today, well when I ran into you in the hall really, I went to see him, to say hello. But he didn't want to speak with me at all."

Hearing the words left Anna so very, very tired. She had her own troubled heart to think of and, though she truly like both Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil, their relationship wore her out. No sooner had the thought entered her mind than the kindness that was her very essence banished it. If I am worn out by it, she thought, how must either of them bear up. She was their only outlet.

"I believe I speak honestly, milady, when I say that Mr. Branson cares about you very, very much. I can't pretend to know why the two of you argue as you do; perhaps you're more alike in temperament than is truly good for either of you." Here Sybil began to protest, but Anna gently silenced her.

"It may not be my place to say, Lady Sybil, but I think you are both very brave. But sometimes, perhaps, you are angry with one another because there is too much between you left unsaid."

"Did you and Mr. Bates ever argue?" The question caught Anna by surprise.

"Only rarely. But I think Mr. Bates and I, well I think we might be made of less fire than you or Mr. Branson." Sybil laughed.

"Oh, Anna, thank you. Honestly, I don't know what I would ever do without you."

That evening, as she sat to down to her correspondence she noticed the date. It had been exactly one year since she had left for the nurse's college in York, exactly one year since Branson had confessed his love for and to her. My, but how life can change in a year, she thought. What will next November bring?

* * *

><p>She decided to give him time and space; it would be almost one month before she would see him again, on a day trip to Ripon to do her Christmas shopping. On the way into Ripon they talked lightly, of the weather, of recent battles, of the increasing difficulty in finding various goods in the shops. Branson left her off in the town square, where she arranged to meet him two hours later. She had done none of her shopping this year, but unlike in past years, she at least knew what she planned to give as a gift for every person on her list. Moving from shop to shop, she collected an armful of packages: monogrammed stationery for her mother, the new Edith Wharton book for Edith, perfume for Mary, a leather-bound set of Sherlock Holmes for her father's library (more books he would never read, Sybil thought with regret), and a brooch for granny. Her last purchase – a silver pen set and blank book – was the most impetuous. By the time she returned to the car, she was laden as a pack horse, but Sybil bore a strange pride in carrying these packages herself, and not having Branson follow her around to serve as a porter as Mary might have done.<p>

"It seems you've had a successful outing, milady."

"Yes, I have. I wasn't home for Christmas last year, so I've taken especial joy from my shopping this year."

Sybil waited for Branson to respond, sensing something was off.

"Branson? What is it?"

"I've waited to tell you, milady, but I'm going home for Christmas this year. To Dublin."

"Oh, Branson! That's wonderful! But, isn't it, well won't it be terribly dangerous?"

"It may. But, I've not been home for several years and the opportunity has arisen. When I spoke to his Lordship he agreed I should go."

Why did no one ever tell her anything? Branson was going to Ireland, to Ireland, and she was just finding out? How long had her father known? And Anna?

"How long will you be gone? When do you leave?"

"I'll be away two weeks, milady."

"But when do you leave?"

Very quietly Branson said, "tomorrow."

Sybil gasped audibly, but said nothing further. That night, however, she made her way to the garage after the rest of the household had gone to bed. She carried a small package with her.

"You're very late tonight, milady."

"I wanted to see you before you left." Branson smiled.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier that you were leaving?"

"It's only for two weeks and I didn't want to worry you. Was I wrong?"

"I suppose not. Of course it comes as a great surprise but, yes, I would have worried as soon as you'd told me. You will come back to Downton though, won't you? You shan't take another job in Ireland?"

Here Branson chuckled.

"I have a return ticket, milady, so you needn't worry on that account. And I assure you that I shan't take another job while I'm away."

Her brow was still furrowed, but she seemed to relax a bit.

"I thought you might visit tonight, so I've brought this out to the garage with me."

He handed her a beautifully wrapped box. She opened it deliberately and found…nothing. She looked up, her confused eyes meeting Branson's twinkling ones.

"I don't understand, Branson."

"Your gift will come from Dublin this year. The box is an 'I owe you,' of sorts." He laughed.

"Would you like your gift this evening, Branson, or do you prefer to wait?"

"I don't believe it's for the recipient to decide that, milady."

"In that case, here, I hope you like it."

He took the small package from her outstretched hand and removed the ribbon. Inside lay a small leather-bound book and the most expensive looking pen he had ever seen.

"It's silver," she said shyly, thinking perhaps she should have looked for a less expensive pen.

"It's lovely. The book, too. Thank you." Silently he wondered what had possessed her to purchase such an extravagant gift. A silver pen! Oh, but to tell the friends he wrote by which instrument their letters were written. Why they'd never speak to him again. Sometimes he didn't know what to make of Lady Sybil.

"Happy Christmas, Branson. And Happy New Year. I shall look forward to hearing about Ireland when you return."

"Happy Christmas, milady."

Branson left the next morning on the milk train, a silent prayer on his lips that the Christmas be a happy one for all as the great house disappeared from view. Although Carson and Mrs. Hughes had known for some weeks that Branson would travel home to Ireland for Christmas, most of the staff had only learned last night that the chauffeur would be away; Branson had not even told Anna his secret, not wanting her to be torn between her loyalty to him to keep it secret and her loyalty to Lady Sybil. If his absence had gone unremarked upstairs, downstairs the staff spoke of nothing else as they waited for Carson and their evening meal.

"I don't see why he's got to go home for Christmas when none of the rest of us do," O'Brien complained bitterly.

"I think it's rather nice that he can see his family. He hasn't been home since I've known him," Anna said, not wanting an argument.

"Must be some kind of miracle at home to get him away from here - and his..." Thomas sneered, the arch in his eyebrow falling as his voice trailed off. He had been on the verge of verbalizing what he suspected, and what he suspected others of the staff must also have suspected if they were honest with themselves, when he thought better of it. He was lucky to have his place under Dr. Clarkson and for once decided not to let his mouth run faster than his mind. The last thing he needed was to upset her ladyship - any of her ladyships - and lose his place and his lodgings.

"Why should it take a miracle?" Daisy asked.

"Thomas was just being rude," Anna said, "weren't you, Thomas?"

He sneered and lit a match. "Always."

They were saved then by Carson's approach and the conversation ended. For 'saved' is how Anna truly thought of it; Lady Sybil would have to be even more careful - if Thomas suspected her of having an improper relationship with the chauffeur O'Brien couldn't be far behind.

The next morning as Anna tied up Lady Sybil's hair for church so told her of the conversation in the servant's hall the night before.

"But how does he know, Anna?"

"Well he mightn't know. He might only suspect."

"But how? I'm very careful when I go to the garage."

"I don't mean to upset you, milady, but perhaps you're not as careful as you believe. Why just yesterday you ran smack into me coming in from outside!" Anna's words struck a cord and Sybil managed the trick only she was capable of, her cheeks growing rosy while the color simultaneously drained from the rest of her face.

"I'm afraid you're right, Anna. I will be more careful. Thank you for telling me - I feel you're a true friend to speak to me as you do."

It's all in a day's work, Anna thought, but she smiled kindly and dropped her chin in a respectful nod before finishing the hair style and sending Lady Sybil off to church as stylish as the times - or her ladyship - would allow.

The remaining days before Christmas passed quickly. Almost immediately, Sybil felt, Christmas morning was upon the great house. As they assembled to offer gifts to the staff, Sybil couldn't help but notice the place where Branson would have stood and hope that he was enjoying a lovely day with his own family. Her family had loved the gifts she selected, most especially Edith who was touched Sybil remembered how much she had enjoyed _The Custom of the Country_ on the eve of the war. The days after Christmas were more languorous, as these were the days that previously would have been filled with hunts and parties, merry music and dances, guests and lavish feasts. Sybil volunteered for additional shifts at the hospital that week in an attempt to deny her mind the painful pleasure of too many journeys into the past, too many memories of the glorious Christmas week days she had known for so many years. The snow was deep and her father was obliging in her request to abandon the walk in favor of the car. ("As long as Edith doesn't mind driving you, that is," he'd said sternly.) In Branson's absence, Edith drove Sybil to and from the hospital, affording Sybil a view from the front passenger seat instead of behind the driver where she usually sat. The world looked different from the front, she had thought, as though you were in charge of your own destiny and not simply watching it roll past. From the front she could almost touch her world; from the back, she could only catch fleeting glimpses from the left or the right.

"I wish I had also gone to the nurse's college," Edith said forlornly the last evening on their way back to the house.

"I'm sure Papa would still allow it," Sybil answered, trying to be helpful, but taken aback by Edith's admission.

"The war will be over before I'd be a nurse," Edith complained.

"Well I shall be glad when the war does end, whatever the circumstance."

"I shall, as well, although I will miss the freedom the war has allowed us." Sybil looked at her sister quizzically.

"Well surely you can't expect that I'll be permitted to drive or you to work or any other nonsense once order is restored to the world."

"But don't you like driving?"

"Of course I do, and I'll miss it terribly," Edith lamented, though the voice she used was one of absolute resignation.

"Then you must not give it up. After the war is over, we must take the new with the old and make a new, better world," Sybil implored her sister.

Edith laughed. "Goodness, you should like the chauffeur," Edith remembered the conversations she'd had with Branson when he taught her to drive.

"I suppose I do," Sybil joined Edith's laughter, then rode silently the rest of the way, afraid whatever she might say next would show her hand.

* * *

><p>"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…" Sybil knew the prayer by heart, of course, and could speak it, like most of the congregation, without thinking of what she was saying. And so, as she sat in church for last time in 1917 speaking the words of one prayer, silently she prayed the words of another.<p>

"Dear God, for three and half years you have allowed war to rage across Europe. An entire generation – _my _generation – has been lost to this war. Many of those who have not been killed have simply witnessed too much to ever be whole again, perhaps myself included. I am tired, God; we are tired. Let the men who made this war end it and let there never be another. Let it truly be the war to end all wars. Dear God, I pray, when the time comes next year for New Year's services, may this war be in the past and may the future spread before us as a new dawn. And may Branson be part of that future. Please, God. Amen."

"A Happy New Year to you each," the reverend wished his congregation, as the bells began to peal, and the parishioners streamed forth from their pews, away from 1917 and toward the great new year, 1918.


	5. Chapter 5

The crossing had been a quiet one this time, only four hours on unusually smooth December seas. His heart jumped as the city hove fully into view, for this was Ireland, his beloved homeland that he had missed so dearly since accepting the position as Downton Abbey's chauffeur. Early in 1913 he had crossed the Irish Sea as a lark almost, not truly expecting any English aristocrat to hire an Irishman. He'd spent a month chasing down leads and watching his savings dwindle by the day. He'd given himself one more week to find a position or make the return crossing; two days into that last week he had sat for an interview with Mr. Carson, a man for whom he knew immediately he could work happily. The following day he had been invited to sit down with Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham, who had offered him the job there and then. The terms were better than he would have hoped, neither Carson nor his Lordship seemed the least flummoxed by the lilt of his words or the place he called home, and so he accepted gratefully, trading an Irish bed for and English one and his first name for his last one. It had been so long since he'd heard his first name spoken that he did not notice at first his brother's repeated cries of, "Tom! Tom! Over here, Tom."

"Patrick, hello," he answered finally, his name, Tom, a balm upon his soul.

Their reunion was a merry scene and shortly they found themselves on the steps of their childhood home. He wanted to hold this in his mind, this tidy little row house with lace curtains in the window and soft light filling the panes of glass. It had been nearly five years since he had stood on these steps and his heart was too full at that moment even to turn the handle. When he did, it was just as he had remembered, the small comfortable room to the left, its walls delicately papered in cream, rose colored cushions upon the worn chairs, a sewing basket in the corner, and a pile of handmade afghans folded neatly in the opposite corner. A fire roared, flames licking high up the chimney, and the warmth hit him immediately, warming his bones. Ahead rose the stairs and to the right was the kitchen and small dining space. His mother's back was to him and she was bent over the stove, checking that her stew was just so. "Must have been late today," she said absentmindedly to his sister, Cathleen, who sat at the table darning socks. Neither woman had heard the door and so Tom was able to enter silently, a finger to his lips directed at Cathleen. He stood a moment behind his mother, then wrapped his arms around her in one fluid movement.

"Tom! Oh, Tommy, how I've missed you!"

"It's good to be home, Mam, I've missed you, too."

* * *

><p>The next day he had reserved for shopping, although many goods were scarcer in the Dublin shops than anything he'd seen in Ripon. After a fruitless morning on the High Street where unwelcome thoughts ("You haven't seen them for five years. How did you expect to know what to buy?") and legions of British soldiers patrolling the streets gnawed at his mind ("He could be the one that killed my cousin. Or him. Or him."), he walked back, hoping to find his mother or Cathleen at home.<p>

"Where were you off to this morning, Tom?" Cathleen asked warmly, pouring him a cup of tea.

"Sorry, we've not got any sugar – it's a precious commodity these days."

"Thanks, Cathleen. I tried to do my shopping on the High Street..." his voice trailed off.

"But you couldn't decide which was worse, the soldiers or the lack of supplies."

"Is it always like this?"

"Since the Rising, unfortunately. Dublin's not for the faint of heart these days. We try to keep to ourselves, our kind, but as you know it's not always enough."

"Do you ever think of leaving?"

"You mean like you?" She grinned. "No, never. This is my home."

"What about when the real fighting comes?"

"I reckon even not then. No, I think the only way I'll leave Dublin is if I'm carried out in a coffin."

There was an edge, a bitterness to Cathleen that he had not known before and he wondered how he would sound if he had not found his position at Downton but had instead returned to Ireland. Her words gave him a new idea, though, which he decided to explore.

"I suppose there will be a lot of coffins in the coming years."

"Well that's rather morbid of you, but yes, I suppose you're correct, Tom."

"Do you think the hospitals will need extra nurses then?"

He could see the wave of puzzlement wash over her face, beginning with her eyebrows, which slanted sharply downward and ending with her mouth which opened and closed quickly while she considered her response.

"What a strange question. Whatever made you ask that?"

"Nothing, really, only I've got a friend – a woman I know from service – who is becoming a nurse." It wasn't a lie, exactly, he did know Lady Sybil from service – his service.

"But this friend, she's in England, isn't she?"

"She is now. But if the Irish hospitals needed nurses, maybe she would move to Dublin."

"Move to Dublin! Are you mad? Did you hear anything I told you? Only a fool would move to Dublin!"

"You said yourself you wouldn't leave."

"But this is my _home_. I'm not some bloody war nurse looking to leave service."

"Lady Sybil isn't looking to leave service!"

Had Cathleen's eyebrows arched any higher they would have inched off her forehead and onto the top of her head. Tom bowed his head, feeling the blood rising in his face.

"_Lady Sybil."_

"It's not like that, Cathleen."

"I don't know what it's like, Tom, but I hope you have better sense than to get yourself mixed up with an English aristocrat. Friend, nurse, or otherwise." Her tone told him the conversation was over.

"Cathleen, I'm sorry. Look, before I forget, I meant to ask, do you still make your own lace?"

Her expression softened.

"Of course. Do you need something?"

"Do you think you could make a cloth? Or a shawl?"

"Have you lost your mind? Do you know how many hours either of those would take? … But to be honest, I haven't got a Christmas gift for you this year. So, tell me which you want and you can consider it your Christmas gift."

"Thank you, Cathleen. A shawl, please."

"And may I ask if you intend to wear my handiwork or if you've someone else in mind? Perhaps this _Lady _Sybil?"

Tom inhaled deeply. He had slipped, badly, but there was no undoing what he had done. Better to be honest, especially if he hoped to return one day with Lady Sybil by his side – and that he very much did.

"I'd like to offer it to Lady Sybil, yes, as a mark of my friendship."

"Nothing more?"

"Seeing as I am the chauffeur and she is a lady, no, nothing more."

"And to think you always said you wouldn't always be a chauffeur."

He let the comment go, not wanting to continue this conversation any longer than necessary.

"Thank you, Cathleen. Really, I mean it."

"Get me my basket, Tommy. If I'm to have this done before you leave I best start it this afternoon."

* * *

><p>Cathleen was good to her word, for every time Tom came downstairs she was there by the fire, gracefully stitching, turning simple thread into a delicate pattern complete with roses and shamrocks. She preferred to work silently, which was okay with him for watching her work consumed him with a guilt he preferred to not confront. He passed the days before Christmas at home, reading and writing, as well as doing the odd jobs his brother had left undone – nailing down a loose floor plank here or tightening a doorknob there. More than once he wondered how Lord Grantham and the rest of his kind passed their days, for a day without work for Tom passed slowly indeed.<p>

On Christmas Eve he attended Mass with his family, the first time he had done so in many years, for he certainly wasn't about to seek out a Catholic church in Yorkshire, nor to give voice to his prayers in any other. The old carols echoed off the stone walls and wooden pews and for the first time since he stepped from the boat Tom knew he must really come home. There was nothing at Downton – nothing in England – for him, but Ireland gave him sustenance in a way he could not articulate. "Dear God," he prayed that night, "have mercy on my soul." He could not bring himself to confess, even to God, his longing for Lady Sybil or the plan quietly forming in his mind to unite her, God willing, with his beloved homeland.

Christmas was a simple one that year; Tom had not been alone in finding the shops bare and the mood grim. As his mother laid a succulent roast on the table, Tom remembered the Christmases of years past – the train set his father had helped him to assemble as a boy or the books he'd received as he had grown older. His family had always been poor, but his parents had scrimped and saved to make sure each child received one memorable gift each year.

Finishing the meal, Patrick turned to Tom and asked, "So do you think you could move back here one day?"

It was a fraught question, especially in front of their mother. Cathleen's hands, which had already picked up her lacework, stilled as she waited for the response.

"I don't know, Patrick, but I hope so."

"Well you'd have to have a job, that's for one thing," his mother said, taking the situation in hand.

"Mam's right, of course, and I don't believe chauffeurs are in great demand in these parts."

"Oh, Tom, enough about being a chauffeur. Isn't it time you made something else of your life?" Cathleen's words were spoken with a force that seemed to take even her by surprise; quickly she returned to her work, ashamed at having thus ridiculed her brother.

"Cathleen's right, Tommy. You always wanted to be a writer. You could get a job at a paper, you know." His mother's voice was soft, as though she half expected her son to rebuke her and her daughter both.

Tom stood quietly from the table, moving deftly to clear away what was left of the meal. This he did in silence, as three pairs of eyes watched him, waiting and wondering.

"Alright, I'll see," he finally said quietly, then opened the old Bible to read the Christmas story as they had done every year since he could remember. He felt very, very tired when he finished, and retired to his bedroom. As he climbed the stairs he could hear three voices whispering in hushed tones that could only mean he was their subject of conversation.

That night he slept poorly, turning over what his mother and sister had said in his mind. Could he really find a position with the paper? Would Lady Sybil ever agree to marry him? If she ever married him, would she agree to living her life in Dublin? At last his mind was quiet, worn out from so much thought, and he slept.

* * *

><p>The day before his return to Downton, Tom visited the newspaper in the late afternoon. He had expected nothing, but had been received warmly by the editor, who had been impressed by the depth and breadth of his knowledge of the war, the situation in Ireland, the Russian Revolution, and President Wilson's plans for peace. At the end of the conversation the gentleman had asked for a sample of his writing, which Tom had happily thought to bring. His eyes scanned the lines in front of him quickly.<p>

"You write very well, Mr. Branson, and you'd be a valuable addition to any staff."

"Do you think you might have a place for me, then, if I return to Dublin."

"I should hope so. And with such trouble as there is coming, I expect we'll need to hire an additional man or two. You say you have to return to England tomorrow. Once you're there, you can write and I'll let you know when a position is available. Mind you now, once I have a position I shan't be able to hold it open indefinitely, but I should certainly like to have a man of your abilities and opinions on my staff."

"Thank you, sir, thank you very much. I appreciate it. And I will write."

"Safe travels, my lad, and may the road rise to meet you."

Tom returned home in a fine mood after that and attended to his traveling cases quickly. He had not brought much – just one suitcase and a small bag he kept on his person – so repacking took little time. Just as he was finishing, he heard a faint knock at his door. Opening it he found Cathleen, her arms outstretched to display the shawl she had feverishly crocheted. One look told Tom it was a fine piece of work, possibly the finest his sister had done.

"Happy Christmas, Tom. Please give my regards to Lady Sybil when you offer her my shawl." The animosity was gone from her voice now, replaced by something close to resignation.

"Thank you, Cathleen. Really. You won't say anything to Mam about this now will you?"

"No, I'll not say anything. But, Tom, don't think for a minute that I believe you've told me the whole story. You can be a real fool sometimes, Tom. But you always were a dreamer, weren't you?"

Her voice cracked as she tried to hide the emotion, the admiration, in her last question. In response Tom simply opened his arms and pulled her into a tight hug, as when they were younger. Listening to her these past two weeks it had been easy to forget that he was the older brother and she the younger sister. As he held her now some measure of the old order was restored.

"You leave early tomorrow, then?"

"At dawn."

"And you'll be back to Downton Abbey in the evening?"

"God willing, I'll be back in time for the evening meal."

"1918, Tommy. Can you believe it?"

"No, It doesn't seem possible, Cathleen."

"Tom? Don't wait so long until you come home again. Alright?"

"Yes. That's a promise."

They hugged again.

He awoke early, spiriting himself out of the house before he could disturb their slumber. As he crossed the threshold he sent up a silent prayer for a safe journey – and an eventual return. The sea he crossed that day was an angry one, rolling waves lashing at the ship, tossing it as a plaything in a small tub. A strong gale whipped the water into a great froth. Most of the passengers, Tom included, spent the voyage bent over the rails, and few had ever been so glad to see land as when they docked in Liverpool. On the docks Tom steadied himself before climbing aboard the train bound for Yorkshire and Downton Abbey. The third class benches were nothing more than hard slabs of wood, but Tom was lucky to find a bench to himself in the back of the car, where he slouched against the side of the car and slumbered lightly. He awoke just before the Downton Abbey stop, adjusting his jacket, trousers, and hat so that the rigors of the voyage would not be so immediately apparent.

Being the chauffeur there would be no one to meet him at the station, so he had planned to walk from there to the great house. He felt his mind must be playing tricks then when just shy of the platform he spotted Lady Edith, laughter playing across her face at seeing his surprise.

"Welcome home, Branson."

"Milady, this is a surprise."

She laughed.

"Papa was called to London on urgent business this afternoon. He is leaving on this train." She gestured toward the platform where Branson could make out the figure of his Lordship boarding the first class carriage.

"I offered to drive him and he agreed. He's the one who remembered you were arriving on this train, so he asked if I wouldn't mind waiting for you. He said with my driving, he'd rather have you return the car to Downton!"

Now it was his turn to laugh.

"Thank you, milady, I'll be happy to drive."

She handed him the keys and he offered his hand to assist her into the car. He had had a lovely time in Dublin but right now, this was where he belonged, for he had unfinished business and would stay until he could finish it.


	6. Chapter 6

It was all Sybil could do to not rush to the garage the evening Branson returned. Twice that night she wrapped herself against the cold, but each time Anna's words came back to her that she must be more careful. The next day it snowed, fat, wet flakes just the other side of rain, which allowed a plan to form. In mid-morning she approached her father in his library.

"It's snowing, Papa."

"Mm, is it?" He looked up briefly and out the window. "Yes, I see it is."

"Might I ask Branson to drive me to the hospital for my shift this afternoon?"

"I thought you weren't needed at the hospital today, Sybil?"

"I wasn't. But Dr. Clarkson said one of the nurses has taken ill so he asked if I might cover for her." This was very risky, bringing Dr. Clarkson into her lie, but she knew her father didn't particularly care for the man and wasn't likely to remember why she had gone to the hospital, let alone follow up with the doctor himself.

He sighed. "And will you be home for dinner?"

She nodded, "Yes, Papa."

"Very well, you may ask Branson to drive you."

"Thank you, Papa."

"And ask your mother and sisters if they need anything from town."

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying away to do as instructed. She also wanted a quick word with Cousin Isobel before she left. With Matthew at the front and Isobel watching over the convalescent home and the hospital from early morning until well after dark, she had offered Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Bird the entire month of January away from Crawley House. The Dowager Countess had been outraged ("But they're working people, they like to work. And you wouldn't want them to get ideas that they might not like to work," she had protested), but Isobel had been resolute and, as was so often the case now, had prevailed.

"Isobel, Papa has agreed for Branson to drive me to the hospital this afternoon."

"That's very nice, my dear. How long are you needed?"

"Only for a short shift." Sybil was grateful that the nursing schedule _did _frequently change and so, while unexpected, Isobel was not suspicious of the change.

"I remember you said the door to your parlor has been troubling you, that it doesn't sit properly and is squeaking, but that Mr. Molesley wasn't able to correct the problem."

"That's quite right, Sybil. You have a good memory."

"Only, I thought if you'd like, I could ask Branson to take a look at it while I'm at the hospital. I'll only be a couple of hours this afternoon. He could fix it while I'm working and then wait for me in town."

"That would be wonderful. Thank you."

The pieces of her plan (her lie, she thought darkly) thus in place, Sybil happily made her rounds to the convalescing men. Most of the men had been with their families at the holidays; many of their families had come to visit them here at Downton Abbey, but a lucky few had been deemed well enough to travel home for a brief visit. Regardless of the terms of their visits, to a man the patients were in high spirits and had even begun to speak of organizing a concert in the coming weeks. When Anna passed through looking for Lady Mary, Sybil took the opportunity to request that she let Branson know she needed him to drive her to the hospital after lunch. She spent the rest of the morning checking bandages, dispensing medications, and bringing hot drinks around to the men while focusing her true attention on her plan for the afternoon. Finally Mr. Carson came to tell her that Branson had the car waiting; it was time to leave for her shift at the hospital.

"Good afternoon, milady," Branson said cheerfully, as he helped her into the car.

"Hello, Branson." More quietly she added, "I missed you. I hope you had a nice visit with your family."

As they set off toward the hospital she instructed him to stop first at Crawley House where she then insisted he check to see that no one was approaching up the street. He was reminded at once of the day she tricked him to driving her to the count, but even that had been easier to understand than why he was skulking around Crawley House in the middle of a snowstorm. Once he gave the all clear Sybil exited the car, removed Isobel's silver key ring from between the folds of her jacket and led Branson into Crawley House by way of the servant's entrance. The house was much colder than she expected; perhaps her grandmother had been correct and dismissing the servants for the month had been an act of madness. At the same time she was impressed, though, for surely this meant Isobel tended her own fire when she came home in the evening. (Of course, more nights than not she occupied the guest room that had most notably been that in which the Turkish gentleman drew his last breath – officially, that is – but Sybil forgot that for the moment.)

"Milady, would you mind explaining this to me?" Branson opened his arm in a wide gesture to show "this" encompassed all of Crawley House.

"I don't have to work at the hospital this afternoon, Branson. I wanted an opportunity to speak to you, alone, but I couldn't risk coming out to the garage so soon. So, I told Papa that I had to work at the hospital today, as it is snowing and I was certain he would allow me to use the car. But, I still wouldn't have a place to speak with you. So then I remembered that Cousin Isobel is having trouble with her parlor door. It squeaks when it opens and doesn't sit squarely on its hinges. So, I suggested to her that you could fix it while I was working my shift at the hospital. As it was a short shift, I explained, you wouldn't need to drive back to Downton before returning for me."

"Which was important because you weren't going to be at the hospital."

She nodded, her eyes slightly downcast. It had not occurred that to her that Branson might not approve of this elaborate lie, but the look he was giving her told her that perhaps he did not. Rather than disapproving, however, Branson was simply confused. Her story had been a bit difficult to follow and he was certain a few key pieces were missing. Nevertheless, he had to admit he was impressed at how she had thought it all out – he never would have thought to develop and entire plot in order to speak with her, but then he wasn't Lady Sybil. He realized, too, that he had never stood a chance against her at the count all those years ago; her will was clearly forged of stronger stuff than most anyone else he had ever known.

"But why, milady? Why did you go to the trouble of creating this story?"

"While you were away, Anna told me that Thomas made a rude comment at the servant's dinner. That he suspected us of an 'improper' relationship."

"He said that!" Branson was shocked, not so much that Thomas would voice his suspicions, (for if he were honest, he would have been surprised if none of the servants were suspicious, as he knew that Lady Sybil regularly used the servants' entrance on her trips to the garage) but that neither Carson nor Mrs. Hughes had so much as looked at him askance since his return.

"Not quite. But Anna was certain that was where he headed before Mr. Carson arrived. Anna told me that evening, and she said I must be more careful about coming to the garage to see you."

"I see. And in order for your plan to work this afternoon, you hoped I could fix Mrs. Crawley's door?"

"You can, can't you, Branson?" For a moment she looked worried, but as a mischievous grin formed on Branson's lips, her flustered countenance gave way to a bright smile and she laughed.

"You might have told me or I would have brought my tools. But, I think I can fix it all the same."

As Branson worked on the door, Sybil turned her attention to his visit home, asking about the city, his mother, how they celebrated Christmas, even the crossing. It was as though she was trying to picture it all in her mind, asking for details about which goods were scarce in the shops, how he had filled his days, and even what the soldiers had looked like in their uniforms. (This question had been too much for Branson who had said irritably, "Milady, you have spent the last year working with men in uniform. You don't need me to explain to you what they look like.") She told him about Christmas at Downton, how she had worked additional shifts at the hospital to pass the time, how the families of the patients had streamed through town and house, how she missed the old traditions and the hunts, even while embracing this new life. He laughed when she told him that Edith said she sounded like him one afternoon and it took every bit of strength he could muster to resist sweeping her into his arms in the middle of Mrs. Crawley's parlor. For a moment there was quiet and then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, lumpish package which he held toward her.

"Your Christmas gift, milady. I almost forgot."

She took the package, her fingers working at the ribbon, untying and removing it before slowing unfolding the tissue paper that encased her gift. When at last the shawl was revealed she let out a small gasp, then stretched the delicate lace before her, admiring Cathleen's fine work.

"Branson, it's beautiful. Thank you!" She leaned toward him then and planted a small, light kiss on his cheek, the same gesture he had seen from Lady Mary or even Sybil toward Carson in the past.

"If you recall, I said your gift would come from Dublin this year."

"Oh, Branson, it's lovely, really."

"It's my sister, Cathleen, that stitched it. She sends her regards along with her work."

"It's beautiful. Please, send her my thanks when you write her. I only wish…I only wish I could wear it, Branson." Sybil was impressed that such fine and delicate lacework had come for from his sister's hands and longed to know whether she had known for whom her loving stitches were bound as she pulled the needle.

"There's a war on, milady. I thought you'd given up such finery." His eyes danced seeing how happy this gift made her. "Someday you shall wear it proudly; I've no doubt. Now, we've got this door here fixed and it seems to me that Nurse Crawley's shift is just about finished at the hospital. Shall we return then?"

"Yes, Branson. And, thank you. For everything."

"You're quite welcome."

After checking that no one was about, he signaled to Lady Sybil who then locked the door and climbed into the car, squeezing his hand tightly as she did. When they arrived back at Downton, Branson opened the car door and, as she stepped out onto the drive he said, "Remember now, you've got to be careful." To Mr. Carson the chauffeur's words were a caution against the patches of ice that had begun to form. Sybil, however, understood their true meaning of his words.

Alone with Anna that night, Sybil withdrew her treasure from the small bureau drawer where she had tucked it and displayed the shawl proudly to the maid.

"What a lovely gift, milady," Anna said demurely, silently summing up the hours she knew this shawl had cost. If only she knew, Anna thought. "Mr. Branson's sister must have a high regard for him to create such a fine piece of lace at his request."

Sybil, enraptured by its loveliness, had not previously considered the amount of time this Cathleen had spent creating it and a wave of guilt washed over her thinking of the poor girl, for she knew Cathleen was even younger than her, spending Christmas making a shawl for an unknown English aristocrat.

"No doubt he told her it was for a special friend, milady, and I should think you'd be very proud to wear it." 

"But that's just it, Anna. I wish I could wear it, but the first time Mama or Mary noticed it…" her weary voice trailed off and Anna again wondered at the toll of this illicit relationship.

"Well that's very simple, then. If I recall, a friend of yours will be visiting from London at the weekend. You've not her in over a year, you told me that yourself. So I think it would be very natural if she brought you a small gift, which you might then wear easily after she's left."

Sybil was amazed at the delicious simplicity of Anna's suggestion. It was true. Lady Cornelia Reeves was visiting Downton just this coming weekend for the first time since the war; their last visit together had been during Sybil's truncated visit to London in the early part of the war. Cornelia would naturally bring her a gift, and how easy it would be after she left to include the shawl amongst her offerings. Sybil beamed.

"Will you tell Branson of your suggestion, Anna? In case in future he should hear any reference to the shawl and wonder."

"Yes, milady, I'll be happy to."

The plan worked just as Anna had suggested. In the days, and then weeks, following Cornelia's departure, Sybil was rarely seen without it wrapped around her shoulders, displayed on her bed, or otherwise in the proximity of her person.

"You'd think God himself offered it to her," Mary huffed one evening when Sybil had run upstairs to grab it before dinner.

"Maybe Cornelia brought it as a favor to someone else," Edith suggested quietly, closer to the truth than she ever could have dreamed.

"But who? Sybil hasn't got a beau," the Dowager Countess reasoned.

Sybil reappeared in the drawing room then and Mary, who seemed increasingly agitated these days, determined to needle her further.

"Sybil, dear, what is it about that shawl that you have it on your person nearly every minute now?"

"It was a gift, Mary, you know that."

"Lots of things are gifts, Sybil, but we don't cart them around day and night like a child with its favorite toy." It was a poor choice of words, for they triggered some memory in Edith then, who deftly turned the conversation.

"You mean like that little dog you used to cart around with you, Mary? And where is he these days? I haven't seen him in ages."

"Someone I knew needed him more than I did. I gave him away, as a lucky charm of sorts."

"That's rather unlike you, isn't it?" Edith retorted.

"Girls, girls, enough," Cora entered then, wondering why her daughters took such delight in provoking one another.

"Sybil, dear, it's a lovely shawl and I'm sure Cornelia would be delighted to know how you admire it. Edith, what Mary's done with her stuffed dog is none of your concern. Now, let's move to the dining room before the soup is cold."

Yes, Anna had been brilliant, Sybil thought, and quietly followed her sisters into the dining room.


	7. Chapter 7

The concert planning was in full force the next time Sybil was able to slip out to the garage. She waited for an evening she was certain no one would miss her. The stars seemed to align one Wednesday when Mary and her father were in London and her mother had taken ill. O'Brien sat patiently at her mother's side, coaxing her to swallow a bit of broth and even Thomas was at the hospital with Dr. Clarkson reviewing the files of men who were soon to transfer from the hospital to Downton.

"Anna, I'm going out to the garage. If Edith asks after me, please assure her I've gone to bed for the evening."

The lies, always the lies. Sybil hated lying and she hated asking Anna to lie, but it had been several weeks now since she had had a proper conversation with Branson and she could not bear to let such an opportunity as presented itself this evening pass. True, she occasionally had cause to request the car, if she was needed at the hospital and the weather was especially raw, and once last week her mother had asked her to run an errand in town, but for the most part even her drives with him were rare these days.

"Good evening, Branson."

"Milady, I wasn't expecting you. It's been ages since you chanced a trip out here."

"The night before you left for Ireland, if I recall."

"So what brings you here tonight?" He folded away his papers and focused on her.

"Nothing really. It's been a long time since we had a proper conversation." She gestured to the papers.  
>"You could start by enlightening me with all that you've read."<p>

He smiled. "Do you really want to hear about the boat loads of Yanks on their way to fight the Hun?"

"I do. Or maybe it's just enough for me to know that they are on their way. The war must be over soon now, mustn't it, Branson?"

"I should think so. It's a stroke of good fortune that America's sending over so many troops. Things have looked especially bleak these last few months."

It was true. The ranks of men were increasingly thin. France had been forced to begin conscripting 17-year-olds and Sybil had read recently that England was releasing convicts to create new battalions in an effort to shore up the numbers. To make matters worse, the Russians had just signed a separate peace treaty, removing them from the war and allowing Germany to concentrate its attention firmly on the Western Front. Sybil imagined that Branson's heart murmur must be very bad indeed for the army to still not rescind their order that he was medically unfit for duty.

"It has lasted so many years now, Branson, that it shall seem strange to me once it's finally ended."

"I know what you mean, milady. And the world will be a different place."

"Do you really believe it will be? That the old order will be replaced by something new?"

"My belief that a new order will replace the old is the only thing that keeps me going some days, Lady Sybil."

He rarely used her first name and hearing it spoken, coupled with the quiet, lonely timbre in which it was said startled Sybil very much. She raised her gaze to meet his and for one sweet, fleeting moment Branson had thought she might lean into him for a kiss. She dropped her gaze quickly, though, and then changed the subject.

"Will you attend the concert?"

"If Mr. Carson or his lordship request to the staff to attend, then yes, I'll be there."

"Mary and Edith are singing a duet. I'm grateful I can claim nursing duty so that I shan't have to join them!" She let out a peal of laughter.

"I might have to hope to go just to see the two of them getting on together."

From his first weeks on the job, Branson had learned to dread any trip that involved both Lady Mary and Lady Edith. Their constant sniping set his teeth on edge and even the Dowager Countess seemed helpless to hold them at bay when they were set against one another. He could not imagine how this duet had come to be, but the thought of it made him smile.

They continued their chatter, with Sybil telling Branson of the fierce arguments she overheard between her mother and Cousin Isobel, Mary's caginess whenever anyone mentions Sir Richard's name, and even the whispered news she heard from Anna that Bates were working in a pub in Ripon. (He laughed when she belatedly added, "That might be a secret though. You can keep a secret, can't you?")It was poor form to so much as have a personal conversation with a chauffeur, to say nothing of gossiping about family matters. Had anyone in her family heard any of this, Branson would have been on the next boat to Ireland and she on a train to London. More and more there were no secrets between them, however, and Sybil never considered that she shouldn't say these things to him. In no time it seemed the hour had grown late. Stifling a yawn, Sybil excused herself.

"I best be off now, Branson, good night."

"Good night, milady."

As she reached the threshold he added, "The next fair day we have, I'll be working on the car outdoors."

As she ran back into the house she nearly bumped in to Mrs. Hughes as she had Anna back in December.

"Lady Sybil, whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes! Goodness, I'm sorry. I, I'm just looking for Anna. I forgot to give her something for the mending basket earlier tonight and I've just remembered."

It was a lie, an obvious lie, and both women knew it. Mrs. Hughes was no fool; she tried to warn Branson years ago, and had the gnawing feeling (as she suspected everyone downstairs did, save perhaps Mr. Carson) that her warning had fallen on utterly deaf ears. She heard how frequently the back door opened and closed late at night, and she often glimpsed Lady Sybil's silhouette between the house and the garage when she ought to have been sleeping. What they were doing broke every rule of service and every code in society. Secretly, though, Mrs. Hughes admired this and had quietly begun to wonder if she might have been incorrect. Oh, sooner or later Branson would lose his position, there was no question of that. But more and more she began to think he might not end with a broken heart. And between the two, she knew which one was worth more.

"Please, Lady Sybil, the next time…the next time you need to find Anna, you might do so more quietly – and more cautiously. You'll wake the whole house if you're not careful. And it might not be me you have to answer to next."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, you're right, of course. I shall do as you say."

Mrs. Hughes discreetly took her leave then, hoping that Lady Sybil would choose to return to her own room once she had gone, rather than feel the need to continue toward Anna's room and awaken the poor girl. No one in service slept much, but Mrs. Hughes knew since Mr. Bates left that what little sleep Anna did get was often restless. There was no sense in Lady Sybil disturbing her in order to convince Mrs. Hughes of a story which they both knew to be false. She hoped her ladyship would heed the warning, for while she would keep the incident quiet, there was no telling what O'Brien or, perhaps worse, Mr. Carson, would do.

* * *

><p>The next fair day had come within the week and so after lunch she had made her way to the garage where she found Branson working on the car as she had expected. He was in a foul mood, grumbling about both the car, which was proving more challenging to adjust than he'd anticipated, and Mr. Carson, who had grown weary of Branson's frequently expressed political beliefs. Perhaps it was an irrational fear that in a pique of frustration with Mr. Carson he might hand in his notice and leave that possessed her to ask him, essentially, why he stayed at Downton and when he would return to Ireland. Perhaps it was something else.<p>

She knew as soon as the words left her mouth that it had been a mistake, but nothing could have prepared her for his response. He would stay at Downton until she wanted to run away with her? She was too scared to admit it but she was in love with him? How dare he presume to know her feelings! To think she might ever run away with him! Why, the very idea was mad!

A knot formed in her stomach as soon as she realized Mary was approaching and Sybil had stalked away furiously and gone about her afternoon in a daze. She had expected Mary to confront her at some point about her conversation with Branson (Dear God, she hoped, Mary had not been able to hear their actual words), but had also hoped it might not be until the morning when she would have had a chance to calm her nerves. Naturally though, Mary had confronted her before dinner. Afterwards, it had taken everything Sybil had to sit through each course as though she hadn't a care in the world. Finally, dinner had ended and back in her room she rang for Anna, although she knew doing so would most likely interrupt the servants' dinner.

They had just finished eating downstairs when the bell rang; all eyes shot to the bells, for it was extremely unusual for any to ring at just this hour.

"That'll be Lady Sybil," Mrs. Hughes said, looking back to Anna.

"I wonder what she needs. She doesn't usually ring at all," Daisy observed.

"I'll say. Only one of them who ever gives us a moment's peace," Thomas added. Despite himself, he had come to admire Nurse Crawley, as he now of thought of Lady Sybil, and recognized that she was more than a bit different from from the rest of the Crawleys.

As Anna rose to attend to her mistress, she caught Branson's glance. Slowly, wearily he closed his eyes. I should have known, Anna thought. At that moment she might gladly have kindled an entire fire rather than face whatever havoc they had wrought unto each other's lives today, for she felt certain that Branson would be there at the table quietly reading his paper long after the others had cleared out that night.

Lady Sybil's eyes were red with unshed tears by the time Anna arrived in her room.

"Milady, what is it?"

"It's awful, Anna, just awful. He's so full of himself and then, of course Mary would be standing there, and I don't know what she heard and then, of course, she's got to confront me about it before dinner tonight and I've just been waiting all this time and I don't know what I'm going to do. How can he say that? Why would he say that? And what will I do about Mary?"

Nonsense. It was utter nonsense and if Lady Sybil expected Anna to offer her any advice she was going to have to settle down.

"Milady, I'm sorry, but I'm unable to follow what you've said. Please, can you tell me one thing at a time? Let's start with Mr. Branson. Tell me what he said."

Sybil filled her lungs with a great breath of air, released most of it, and in a voice and tone far calmer than she had possessed just seconds before, she started over.

"I was talking to Branson today, Anna, and I don't know why but I told him I didn't think he'd be content to stay at Downton forever."

"Perhaps you said that because you are concerned that he might well leave."

"Yes, perhaps that is it. But when I said that, he told me he would stay at Downton until I want to run away with him."

Anna raised her eyebrows. That _was_ bold, even for Mr. Branson.

"But the worst of it Anna, was the thing he said next. He said to me, that I'm" and here she dropped her voice and did her best Irish accent, "too scared to admit it, but that I'm in love with him!"

Her voice returned to normal, but the indignation rose. "How can he say that?"

"Perhaps because it's true?"

Sybil was stunned.

"I don't…I don't know. Do you think it is?"

"That's not for me to say, milady."

"I just don't understand why he would say that."

"Lady Sybil, do you remember several months ago when you were especially upset with Mr. Branson and I suggested that perhaps the two of you argued so fiercely because there is much between you that is left unsaid?"

Sybil nodded her head, hesitantly.

"It seems to me that it's about time for what's been unsaid for so long to be spoken."

Sybil was quiet then and Anna hoped she was reflecting on the feelings of her heart. Anna saw how Lady Sybil lit up when she was in Branson's presence. She knew the precious pages that lay between the mattresses, the times her ladyship risked the cold for a late night trek to the garage, the way a simple lace shawl had become a sacred possession. If this was not love, what was? She wanted to shake Lady Sybil sometimes, but instead after giving her a moment to think, Anna moved on to the next problem.

"Now, milady, how does Lady Mary fit into this story?" This Anna did not want to know, for surely Lady Mary could recognize a lover's quarrel when she saw one and, if she in fact had, Anna knew it was only a matter of time before she heard of this from Lady Mary as well.

"When I looked up, she was standing there. Not immediately in front of us, mind you, but near enough to see that we weren't discussing the weather."

"And could she hear your conversation?"

"That's just it. I don't believe so, but of course I don't know."

"Well it seems to me that since you can't be certain what she did or did not hear, you ought not to worry about that. And, if she had heard, don't you think she might have said so when she spoke to you before dinner?"

Relief flooded Sybil's face.

"I suppose you are probable correct. Thank you, Anna. Good night."

"Good night, milady."

Branson would be waiting for her in the servant's hall, but she could not face him, not tonight. Her work for the evening was done and no one else would notice if she retired directly to her room. Quietly she turned her steps away from the servant's hall and to her own room, wishing all the while for Mr. Bates.

* * *

><p>Early the next morning Anna found herself alone with Lady Mary.<p>

"Anna, do you think there's anything between Sybil and chauffeur?"

"You mean Mr. Branson?"

"Yes, him."

"I really couldn't say, milady." This much was true. Just as she had sworn to bear Lady Mary's shame in silence, so too had she vowed to keep Lady Sybil's secret.

"So she hasn't said anything to you about him?"

"No, milady."

Fortunately for Sybil, Anna shared this conversation with her later that morning. When Mary confronted her about Branson later that day, Sybil then at least knew for certain that while Mary was suspicious, she definitely had not overheard their exchange. Sybil believed she was truthful with Mary when she said she didn't think she liked him like that. It wasn't until after, when she contemplated what would happen if Mary gave him away, that she realized – no, that she admitted – what she had long known. She could not live without him in her life.

Her trek to the garage that evening had felt like a mile, the knot in her stomach growing with each step. She felt like her mouth was full of sawdust by the time she got there and choking out 'I've told Mary,' was easily the hardest phrase she had ever uttered. And then it all went topsy-turvy. Branson had been delighted by her use of the word 'us;' finally after all these years might he have a real reason to hope that he might one day be bound to Lady Sybil in the eyes of God? Naturally, then, he ruined it by demeaning her work as a nurse. She had parted from him furiously and the thought entered his mind for just one moment that she might be cross enough to have him sacked then and there.

The last thing he wanted now, truly, was another fight with her. He sat hunched over his desk until the early hours of the morning trying to craft an appropriate apology. If he waited for her next visit to the garage, he may have to wait weeks and now, so close to hearing her admit that she loved him, he would not let his pride come before the apology he knew he should offer. The next morning at breakfast he handed Anna a plain sheet of paper, folded in half. On it he had written, "Nurse Crawley: You do fine work." It was only six words but they had cost him hours of sleep in his quest to find the right words. He hoped she would accept the apology good-naturedly and not wish to draw out this dispute.

He needn't have worried. Sybil, too, had been anxious to put their argument to the side. She had been speechless with anger when she returned to the house, but by the time she opened the door to her room she knew he did not honestly believe that what she did was without meaning. Before she climbed into bed she had dashed off the quick note as a peace offering. As she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of Irish officers in Dublin hospitals.

As Anna tucked Branson's note into her apron, she withdrew another paper and passed it to him. Opening it he read, "Do officers in Ireland need hot drinks?" A broad smile formed and he began to laugh.

"Mr. Branson, is everything alright?" Carson asked from the head of the table.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, everything is alright. It's going to be a great day."

The staff, Anna included, looked at him as though he might be a little mad, but he didn't care. Lady Sybil loved him.


	8. Chapter 8

The spring of 1918 was the most difficult anyone at Downton had known. Before April had turned to May, meat, butter, cheese, and sugar were all strictly rationed, along with fuel. As a part of the military system, Downton's occupants were able to procure larger quantities of these scarce products than other families of their acquaintance, but increasingly upstairs as well as down subsisted on watery soups, hard loaves of bread, and the vegetables that had been put up after the last harvest.

Worse than the food was the conversation. Three themes had come to dominate their dinner conversations: Mary's wedding to Sir Richard, Matthew's increasingly dangerous position at the front, and – when the Dowager Countess was not present to cast a steely, silencing glare at her son – how much everything cost, each topic seemingly worse than the last. A discussion of money would have been unthinkable even a year before, but as the war dragged on and Robert's visits to his solicitor and man of business increased, so did the frequency of his comments on how much things cost.

"I'm afraid I've been thinking of letting Branson go," Robert announced one night at dinner.

Sybil choked, nearly sending a mouthful of soup onto her lap.

"Sybil, darling, are you alright?" her mother asked, concerned.

"Yes, mama, I'm sorry, I suddenly needed to cough."

Mary cast her with a look, but no one else appeared to notice the timing of this cough.

Cora turned her attention to her husband. "Now, Robert, what do you mean you're thinking of letting Branson go? Surely we can't do without a chauffeur now."

"I've been talking it over with my man in London. We can't know how long this blasted war will last and with petrol rationed as it is, I'm not sure it's sensible to continue to employ a chauffeur."

Sybil did not trust herself to speak, so she was relieved when Edith did.

"But Papa I don't understand. Who would drive us?" Edith was truly bewildered by her father's suggestion, for the Crawleys had employed a chauffeur from the day her father purchased their first car. Now that they had more than the one surely they needed a driver.

"That's just it, Edith. I fear there won't be much driving until the war is over. Just the other day Branson told me the trouble he'd had the last time he had to purchase petrol. And when the war ends, of course, the men will be back from the front and we'll be able to find a new chauffeur easily enough."

Sybil suddenly feared she might be sick sitting there at the table. Yet, she dare not excuse herself, for as much as she hated to hear this conversation, she was more terrified of missing it and of learning in the morning that Branson had been dismissed.

"But what about when Aunt Rosamund or Sir Richard visits? Or Matthew? Surely we need a chauffeur to meet them at the station. And how would Sybil get to the hospital? You can't expect her to walk every day, especially not with all those ghastly men Mrs. Bird feeds each week."

"Mary! What a terrible thing to say. Those men served this country proudly and will never be the same because of it. The least we should be able to do to show our appreciation is to offer them a decent meal," Cora was nearly trembling with anger.

"I don't see why when we can't even offer ourselves a decent meal anymore."

"Mary, apologize at once. I will have not my daughter speak that way at my dinner table."

"Then I shall say good night."

As Mary rose stiffly from the table she exchanged a defiant look with her father before passing by Carson and Anna, who stood frozen in place by the entire scene, and out of the room. As the door closed heavily behind her, the remaining four Crawleys sat in silence, rhythmically spooning soup into their mouths. After several minutes, Edith spoke again.

"What she said was awful, Papa, but it is true that the number of discharged soldiers milling about town seems to grow by the week."

"I said I was thinking of letting Branson go, not that I've made the decision."

"Robert, I hadn't thought of the men. Do you think it's really safe for Sybil to walk to the hospital by herself anymore?"

He sighed heavily. "Sybil, when are you going to the hospital next?"

"Tomorrow morning, papa."

Robert pivoted toward Carson.

"Carson, will you ask Branson to accompany Lady Sybil to the hospital on foot? He can wait in town until her shift is over. Better yet, tell him to see if Mrs. Bird needs any help with her soup kitchen."

"Very well, milord."

With that, Robert rose from the table, irritated that women, or at least his women, were so incapable of a reasonable conversation when it came to such matters. He had never understood the men who ruled their families with an iron fist, but at moments like these he felt they must be correct in their manner.

Sybil had hardly slept that night after dinner, tossing and turning and more than once springing from bed to pace the floor, such was the state of her nerves. It seemed she had only fallen asleep when her alarm clock sounded the arrival of a new day. Although Sybil had stopped summoning Anna before her morning hospital shifts shortly after she returned from York, she was grateful to hear the knock at her door that morning.

"Milady, I thought you could use some help this morning."

"Thank you, Anna, yes. Do you think my father will really dismiss Branson?"

"I can't say, milady. But I believe everything will work out."

Sybil's hands trembled, her head piece was crooked, and she looked in manner and in dress roughly how Anna guessed she must feel inside.

"Milady, if you're to work as a nurse this morning, I think you ought to relax a bit. You'll make the men nervous just looking at you!" At this Sybil smiled slightly.

"Do you remember how you felt when Bates left, Anna?"

Anna nodded, of course she did. She still worried every day that he might again.

"If Branson left I don't believe I could live."

"You'd find a way, milady. We women always do. Just look at the women whose men have marched off to war these past four years. It would be difficult for you, but you would survive."

"No, Anna, not me. He must stay. He must."

"I'm not the one you need to tell, milady. Now, if you're to make your shift on time, you'd best be off."

In truth, Anna had slept very little herself, the devastation that had crested across Sybil's face at dinner flashing through her mind at regular intervals all night. How was it that the problems of the people you worked for could affect you so deeply? In some ways she envied Thomas and O'Brien for their ability to separate themselves from their employer. Thomas's remarks after Lady Grantham lost her baby had seemed cruel, but perhaps he was correct in asking why they must live through the family who employed them.

It was too late for Anna, though, for the matters of her mistresses' hearts had long ago become matters of her own, and her heart broke a bit for Lady Sybil that morning. As she made up the bed and opened the curtains she offered her own small prayer on their behalf. If two people ever deserved to be together, she thought, it was Lady Sybil and her chauffeur. Yes, even perhaps more than she and Mr. Bates.

Despite Anna's best efforts to calm her and send her out the door properly and tidily dressed, Sybil still arrived at the garage in an air of distress.

"It's a fine morning for a walk, milady," Branson greeted her happily, then stopped as he got a better look at her.

"Is everything alright?"

"Oh, Branson, no, it isn't at all."

"Shall you tell me why ever not on the way to hospital?" He set a brisk pace, but quickly slowed, as he sensed a timely arrival at the hospital was not her foremost concern this morning.

"At dinner last night Papa announced he was considering dismissing you!"

Branson was surprised, but not shocked. It seemed most weeks lately he spent as much time moving furniture or otherwise assisting with the running of the house as he did as an actual chauffeur. Most houses had lost their chauffeurs to the call-up; the ranks of those who remained dwindled regularly, especially now that fuel was so strictly rationed.

"Well I should be sorry to go, but I can't say as I blame him. It's mighty hard to employ a chauffeur when the fuel these days is rationed as it is."

"But if he were to dismiss you… If you lost your position, what would we do?"

"I know what I would do, milady. I'd return home, be part of the fight for Ireland. It's up to you to decide what you would do."

He did not mean for his words to sound cruel, but if it came to pass he knew he had no choice. It was about time Lady Sybil faced up to the fact that the decision as to whether they were parted was hers and hers alone.

They continued in silence, each contemplating an uncertain future with – or without – the other. When they arrived at the hospital Sybil turned to Branson.

"So you'll wait for me here at the end of my shift?"

"Yes, milady, you'll find me here."

As he watched her walk into the hospital, he wondered if he would really and truly be able to sail for Ireland without her.

As the weeks passed and the tide of the war turned undoubtedly toward Allied victory, Robert said nothing further on the matter of the chauffeur. He'd asked Mrs. Hughes to hold off on replacing Esther ("I believe you mean Ethel, milord," Mrs. Hughes had corrected gently), but he did enjoy having a chauffeur of course and by now he'd rather grown to like Branson. He was a fine driver, no doubt, but more than that the cars were always in impeccable running condition, with smooth brakes, softly purring engines, and gears that shifted without a hitch. They were spotless, as well, and after five years of service the chauffeur seemed as much a part of the car as a wheel or a door. One or another of the Crawley sisters always seemed to dislike most of the staff, but the fact that all three seemed to genuinely like Branson was another mark in his favor. Or at least, Edith and Sybil at least seemed to genuinely like him; Mary didn't actively appear to dislike him, which Robert considered to be almost the same. He was surprised then, when his mother broached the subject one evening at dinner.

"Robert, dear, I heard you were considering dismissing the chauffeur."

"It was only an idea, mama, but I've decided doing so is unnecessary."

Every ounce of tension in Sybil's body seemed to evaporate and Mary gave her a sideways glance that Sybil preferred not to acknowledge. She focused intently on her vegetables, which had suddenly become very interesting.

"Well I should think so. All the best people have chauffeurs, Robert. You have to consider what people would say."

"I have to consider many things, mama, but what people would say is not always one of them."

"Well there's no need to be huffy now. I'm only glad to know you won't be so foolish."

"But how did you know, granny?" Mary couldn't help herself from asking. Surely, she thought, Sybil hadn't gone to her grandmother.

"Why Edith told me. She mentioned it just last week. You said, "Why I hope father won't dismiss Branson now that the war's almost through," didn't you dear?"

"Granny's right, papa. I didn't think it right now that the end feels so near."

"Why, yes, I decided much the same thing myself. Although I am rather sorry I raised the topic with you lot."

Anna could not help smiling as she cleared away the first course. Sybil radiated relief and already in her mind Anna could hear the footsteps on the stairs and unlatching of the back door, for if she knew Lady Sybil at all, Anna knew that tonight she would be powerless to stop herself paying a visit to the garage.

Mrs. Hughes was also within earshot of the back door that night and noticing Anna with her mending basket in the hall she invited the younger woman to share a cup of tea with her.

"I don't know what's going to happen to that one," Mrs. Hughes said softly, stirring a bit of saccharine into her tea in lieu of the rationed sugar.

"I suppose that's not for you or for me to say, Mrs. Hughes." With a sharper tone it could have been a defiant statement, but Mrs. Hughes knew by the resignation in Anna's voice that the comment came from a kind place.

"Poor lad. I wish he would have listened. They won't be able to hide from his lordship forever, you know."

"Do you think he has any idea? Or her ladyship?"

"I should say not. Branson would be sacked at moment's notice if they had. Of course, we must remember, Anna, that there's none as blind as those who refuse to see."

"Do you think Lord and Lady Grantham refuse to see?"

"That's not my place to say. I think, however, that you and I are not the only members of this household with eyes, and ears, and minds that think."

"Do you think Mr. Carson suspects anything?"

"Mr. Carson can't afford to suspect anything, or he'd feel the need to rush to his lordship."

Mrs. Hughes took a long sip of her tea and decided they had said what there was to say about Lady Sybil carrying on with the chauffeur. Gently she turned the conversation.

"Now how are you and Mr. Bates getting on, Anna?"

"We do the best we can. It's very difficult, Mrs. Hughes, to love someone so and yet know you might never properly be with them. "

They were both silent then, reflecting on the simple truth of Anna's words. She had spoken them with regards to herself and Mr. Bates, but in the quiet of the servant's hall, they could not help but tally the number of people, both upstairs and down, who faced that reality with each new day.

"I must be off to bed, Mrs. Hughes. Will you wait for her?"

"You may put out the light, Anna, but yes, I'll wait to lock the door until I know she's come inside." She did not add, 'and I can be certain no one else has seen her,' but each woman knew the reason for the vigil. Mrs. Hughes suspected Anna herself had done this before, but there was no need for both of them to lose sleep over Lady Sybil tonight.


	9. Chapter 9

That summer was particularly hot in Yorkshire and on the afternoons that Sybil spent pressing cold compresses onto the foreheads or limbs of patients she longed for the days many, many years before when in such heat she might have been allowed to swim in the river. Such an excursion was out of the question now, for little girls might swim in rivers but grown women certainly did not.

At least during the day she could distract herself with the tasks to be done; the nights, when the sodden, overheated air hung heavily about the house were a greater misery. Lying on the big bed, stretched from corner to corner, she would be very still, waiting for a whisper of air to bring relief. This seldom happened and by morning her nightgown was frequently damp and clinging to her person. Before her feet had touched the floor her mood was foul, and the hotter days did nothing to improve her condition. Sybil was not alone in being affected by the heat. Coming on the heels of the government's stricter rationing that spring and with anxiety for the war to end increasing every day, most everyone living and working at Downton was irritable on the best of days.

"With the windows closed I suffocate and with them open the noise of the crickets is insufferable," Edith complained one morning at breakfast.

"Sir Richard says it's cooler in London. Do you think we could go down, mama? We haven't opened the house in ages, but it would be nice to get away from here."

"Oh, I don't know, Mary. There won't be much of a season, of course."

"Yes, but mama, this heat is just killing me. And I'd much prefer to stay in our own house than with Aunt Rosamund."

"Robert, what do you say?"

"If you all want to go, I'm not opposed. We'll have to make do without much staff, though, as we can't well close down this house in its current state."

"Downton could spare a few staff, Robert. Surely we could bring O'Brien and Bates."

"And Mrs. Hughes to keep the peace then," Mary muttered, a bit louder than she had intended.

Robert thought for a moment. He had been traveling to London more frequently himself these days and he wouldn't mind a few weeks in the city. Certainly he'd be pleased to be away from this heat.

"Very well then, it's settled. We'll leave at the weekend."

"But Papa, I can't possibly go. I'm needed here and at the hospital."

Four sets of eyes turned toward Sybil.

"Sybil, do you really expect that the rest of us should stay here in this dreadful heat just so you can play nurse with a houseful of moaning officers?" Clearly the answer to Mary's question was no.

"No, not at all. But might I stay at Downton, Papa, while the rest of you travel to London?"

Robert looked to Cora. "I don't see a problem with that, Robert? Do you?"

"Fine. Sybil, you may stay, but I trust you'll not cause too much work for Anna."

The matter settled he turned his attention to Carson.

"Carson, please arrange to travel to London along with Bates and O'Brien. As the house has been closed for some time now, you will need to travel ahead of us to prepare everything. I'll ask Rosamund's butler to meet you at the station once you've given me your train time. I expect we will stay one month this year, although it may be longer or shorter depending what we find. Mrs. Hughes will stay here, along with Anna and the kitchen staff. Sybil will remain as well."

"Yes, milord."

The rest of the week passed in a blur as preparations were made for the Crawley family, minus Sybil, and the small contingent of household staff to travel to London. Rosamund dispatched her butler and housekeeper early in the week to prepare and open the house and Carson and O'Brien had taken the train Thursday to make final preparations. By Friday everything was in place and with the mercury inching higher by the hour, Robert decided they would ride an afternoon train into the city, rather than the next morning's train as he had planned.

As Robert, Cora, Mary, and Edith gathered to leave, Cora suddenly worried that she had erred in allowing Sybil to remain in Yorkshire while the rest of the family spent a few weeks in London.

"Sybil, dear, you're sure you'll be alright here without us?"

"I'll be fine, mama. Please give my love to Aunt Rosamund and the rest."

Cora was not convinced, but what was done was done and it was a relief now with the telephone that Sybil would be able to telephone if anything terrible happened. She offered her daughter a light embrace before climbing into the car for the ride to the station.

So it was that Sybil was left to face life without her family for the first time since she returned from York. Sybil's appearances at dinner had become less frequent over the past year and she certainly wouldn't have dreamed of asking Mrs. Hughes or Anna to serve an entire meal in the dining room for her sole benefit. She hoped whatever Mrs. Patmore was preparing for the evening meal that night would keep, for though she knew the staff had been expecting one last family dinner before they departed for London, Sybil wanted only a tray that evening.

She discovered that requesting a tray had the added benefit of allowing her far more time with Branson in the evenings, and she fell into the routine of finishing her dinner quickly and then heading toward the back door. Able to come and go freely, Sybil was blissful that she need not wait for anyone else to say good night before paying a visit to the garage and she began to consider her time with him as a reward for suffering through the torrid July heat.

Their conversations those nights ranged far and wide, well beyond the war and politics, beyond their childhoods; more and more they discussed their hopes and dreams.

"Do you know what I dreamed of last night, Branson?"

What Branson wanted her to dream of was him, or them, or some version of a future that included her by his side till death do them part. He no longer worried that his love was unrequited, but the fact that she could not – or would not – admit her feelings beyond the occasional use of a plural pronoun frustrated him greatly. He was certain whatever she had dreamed it was not what he dreamed, which was "of us," and nearly every night.

"Tell me, milady, what did you dream?"

"I dreamed of the most delicious cake, Branson. With real sugar and flour and even cream for the icing. It was the most beautiful thing. I think I ate three pieces of it!" She laughed.

"When the war is finally over, Branson, and rationing has ended, I think I should like to make just such as cake, as Daisy taught me before I left for York."

"And will you offer me a slice of this post-war cake, milady, or shall you eat it all yourself?"

"Depending how long until I can make such a cake I might like to eat it all myself! I'm only kidding, of course. I should very much like to offer you a slice of my cake."

"Is that a promise?"

"It is."

"In that case, do you think you'll remember how to make it?"

Here she laughed harder and he did, too, soaking in the wondrous sound of her laughter and only hoping that she might one day make just such a cake for him.

Another evening Branson told of her a letter from a recently married friend who had written with the happy news that a baby was in the offing for the New Year.

"Do you like children very much, Branson?"

"Generally speaking, I believe I do, milady, at least the ones I've known."

"Of course, I imagine one always prefers one's own children to any of previous acquaintance."

"And do you hope to have your own children one day, milady?"

"I should think so very much, Branson. Why, if it hadn't been for this war, I'd likely be married and with a child or two already!"

Then we have at least one reason to thank God for this war, thought Branson.

"Do you hope to have children one day, Branson?"

"Milady, I'm Catholic. That's like asking a butcher if he'd like meat with his dinner."

Catholic. Well of course he must be; she knew that all the Irish were. It was one of the sources of the conflict, of course, but she'd never stopped to consider that Branson must be Catholic.

"But you never go to church."

Now it was his turn to laugh.

"Next time we drive to town, point me to the Catholic church, milady, and I'll be sure to attend mass there in the future."

She blushed deeply, embarrassed by her ignorance. Of course he didn't go to church; there was no Catholic church in the immediate area. Quickly she sought to change the subject.

"Did I ever tell you my mother's family was Jewish?"

"No, milady, I don't believe you have. That's quite interesting really. For they may disapprove of me for being a poor chauffeur, and perhaps even for being Irish, but it's reassuring to know they'll not have membership in another faith to hold against me."

She blushed again at the obvious implication of his words. Oh, Branson, she thought, if only it were that simple.

Before Sybil knew what happened, two weeks and then three had passed and she began to count the days until her family returned with disappointment rather than anticipation. She was pleased in the third week when her father phoned to say they would stay in London one week longer than planned; they would return now on the fifth of August. The change in plans was due in part to the Allied successes at the Battle of the Marne; the news – and men – pouring across the Channel was more positive with each passing day and should the war end in the early days of the month, he preferred to celebrate in London.

Anna could not help but remark on her ladyship's good humor when she brought the dinner tray that night.

"You seem in a very fine mood this evening, milady."

"Papa has just phoned from London to say that they'll stay an extra week, Anna."

"And this pleases you greatly."

"Well I can hardly slip outside to the garage each evening when everyone is home."

"Milady, with all respect: there may come a time when you have to choose, you realize. It's not my place, of course, but I'm only saying."

"I prefer not to choose, Anna. At least as long as that is possible."

It required all of the restraint Anna had acquired in her many years of service to refrain from asking how – and who – Lady Sybil would choose when the time came. She believe she knew, and she believed she would not like to be Lord and Lady Grantham when that came, but she had worked in great houses long enough to know that the people upstairs could be mighty fickle. She did not envy Branson his current position, she was certain of that.

The next evening, Sybil's hand was around the handle of the back door when she heard a sharp voice behind her.

"Lady Sybil. Where are you going at this hour?"

Sybil dropped her head and looked at the floor. She contemplated lying to Mrs. Hughes, who allowed her to stand uncomfortably in the silence, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. What as the point? She had been caught and whatever she said, the housekeeper obviously knew her intended destination. Sybil was surprised to feel tears spring to her eyes.

"Lady Sybil? Will you join me for a cup of tea?"

Sybil nodded, fear and anger and frustration comingling together in her heart. The older woman led the way to her sitting room where she slowly poured two cups of steaming tea and set them on saucers. Into hers she stirred a few precious grains of sugar; Sybil shook her head when Mrs. Hughes offered her the same; she would drink her tea black tonight, the better to taste the bitterness. If Sybil had considered for one minute that the tea was already steeped and two cups sat at the ready, she may have realized that theirs was not a chance encounter that evening. She did not notice, however, and they sat sipping their tea quietly for several minutes before Mrs. Hughes spoke.

"Lady Sybil, may I assume I know where you were going?"

Sybil stared into her teacup, unable to answer even this question. Mrs. Hughes was going to call her father in London and Branson would be fired before the sun rose again. How could she have taken such a risk assuming no one would notice her comings and goings these past few weeks? What was she to do?

"Lady Sybil?"

The younger woman looked up, not quite able to meet Mrs. Hughes's eyes. If she had been Mary she would have been bold and defiant, denying everything and daring Mrs. Hughes to cause a scene. But while many would consider Sybil bold and defiant in any number of ways, insolence toward the staff was not one of the ways these traits manifested themselves in her.

"I'm going to start again, Lady Sybil. I will not ask any questions, but if you believe what I say is incorrect at any point, you will please correct me."

She poured herself a bit more tea and refilled Lady Sybil's cup as well. Sybil nodded slowly in agreement.

"I hope you don't think that no one in this house notices that hours at which you leave and return to the house most evenings. I believe that when you do, you are paying a visit to Mr. Branson in the garage. Whether that is correct each and every time you leave is beside the point, for it is what people believe that matters and the people who live and work in this house are beginning to believe that you are not conducting yourself entirely as becomes a lady."

Sybil sat up at the strength of her words and for the first time looked Mrs. Hughes in the eye. She expected to see anger, but instead saw only a deep reserve of kindness. If Mrs. Hughes was telling her these things to be helpful, perhaps she had best listen and learn.

"Many is the night that Anna or myself has sat a vigil in the servant's hall waiting to see that you were safe inside before we locked up for the night – and to make certain that ours were the only eyes that saw you. But Lady Sybil, this cannot continue. I will not pry into your personal affairs, but Mr. Branson is the chauffeur and as such, his affair is my affair. If he's to continue working here, you mustn't jeopardize his position."

She did not want to cry, but the situation suddenly seemed so overwhelming, and Mrs. Hughes so kind, that Sybil was overcome. She couldn't believe that she and Anna had kept watch over her from the servant's hall and she felt a great debt to them for doing so. Either of them so easily might give Branson away but for reasons she did not fully understand they had not. Mrs. Hughes continued more quietly now and Sybil wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"I warned Mr. Branson years ago to be careful lest he end with no job and a broken heart. He's a good lad, milady, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. And I see now that if he ends that way it won't be entirely his doing. Please be careful, Lady Sybil. I shouldn't like to see either of you hurt."

Mrs. Hughes returned to her tea then, adding a few more grains of sugar then stirring, giving Lady Sybil time to collect herself before she spoke.

"You're correct, of course, Mrs. Hughes. I was going to the garage and it is where I go each evening when I leave the house. I'm terribly sorry I've caused you and Anna to worry so; I never thought… In any case, I'm very grateful to you for telling me these things tonight. And I will be careful, I promise. I shouldn't like my father or Mr. Carson to have cause to dismiss Branson, of course, or to be cross with me."

"They won't hear about it from me, milady, but I'll not be party to any further incidents. Why if either of them knew I had my suspicions and didn't report it, I should be dismissed. I'll not say that again."

Sybil blanched visibly at the prospect of Mrs. Hughes reporting them or of her losing her own position for not.

"Not to worry, Lady Sybil. I was young once, too, believe it or not. I know how these things go and I'd hate to be the cause of dividing two people who care about each other so. You do care about him, don't you? I should hope this is not a sort of _game_ like we've seen from others. Such games usually end badly."

"I do care for Branson, Mrs. Hughes. Very much. I shouldn't say so, of course, even to you. Oh, but I just don't know what do."

"Well, milady, a good housekeeper must always be discreet. And I trust you will figure everything out in your own good time. Now, I've kept you long enough this evening. Is there anywhere you need to go or shall I send Anna up to help you change into your night clothes?"

"Please ask Anna to come upstairs, Mrs. Hughes. And thank you. I know it must be difficult, this position I've put you in."

"Not nearly as difficult for me and it is for you, I'm afraid. Good night, milady. Try to sleep well."

As Sybil wept that night in her room, Anna was taken back to the evening two years before when Lady Mary learned that Matthew Crawley would marry Miss Swire. On the outside it looked so easy and pretty to be a lady, she thought, but their real lives are no easier than ours – and at least we've got beds to make and floors to scrub to distract us from our troubles. When at last she retired to bed, she wished for John Bates to lighten her burden just a little.

Nearly a week passed before Sybil had another opportunity to speak with Branson. The afternoon before her family would return from London she saw him washing the car in preparation for their return.

"Is everything alright, milady? I've missed your company these past few nights."

"I'm terribly sorry, Branson, but I couldn't leave the house. I've been, well I suppose we've been, found out by Mrs. Hughes."

Branson had continued to wash the car as she spoke but he stopped now suddenly and turned to face her.

"Shall I look for another place then?" he asked quietly, shaken by what this news.

"She said she won't tell father or Mr. Carson, Branson, but she also insisted I must stop sneaking off at night. I've been dying to tell you, of course, but I didn't want to write it in a note and I haven't seen you outside at all this week."

"I see. Milady, I'm very grateful to Mrs. Hughes, I won't pretend otherwise. That's only a temporary solution of course, that she won't say give us away to his lordship. I don't know if you have realized this yet, but you will have to make a choice. At least while there's a war on we might continue as we have, but after the war we will have new lives to live – together or apart."

His words were an echo of Anna, of course, and also she supposed of Mrs. Hughes, who had warned her off games of the sort which Mary had played so terribly with Matthew. She thought of the two of them now, how perfect they had been together, until they weren't because Mary had been too proud to risk life as a solicitor's wife. Sybil didn't believe she was too proud, no, she wasn't concerned with a great house or a fortune and a title or even a massive wardrobe the way her sisters were. She believed it was exactly as he had said months before: she was simply too scared. To choose Branson would mean to leap with both feet into the unknown, to walk through life without her family at her back, to create new friendships at a time most women had cultivated their dearest friends for the better part of two decades. These were the things that scared her. Yet, if she had to choose tomorrow, she would choose him in an instant.

Thank God I don't have to choose tomorrow, she thought, as she drifted off to sleep.

She was correct; she would not have to choose tomorrow. Tomorrow she would greet her family, newly returned from a season in London and brimming with news that the war seemed nearly won. Tomorrow was August 5; Sybil did not know it that night, but the last hours of the Marne would be fought tomorrow and Germany would be for the rest of the war in retreat. Three days later one of the last great battles of the war would begin near the little town of Amiens and her family's destiny would once more hang in the balance. Had she known these things she may not have slept so soundly, but she did not. Instead, the heat finally broke and she awoke the next day ready to be again amongst her family and to face the day.


	10. Chapter 10

They had returned from London full of good cheer. Despite Cora's misgivings about the lack of a season, they found many friends installed in the city that month and, while no one would go so far as to organize an actual party or ball, many of their evenings had been spent in the company of their old set. The only thing amiss from the old days, Edith had noted was the lack of young men. Nearly everyone was mourning someone and the soldiers in the uniforms of assorted regiments – or former soldiers with assorted injuries – were a common enough sight, but it had been so good to be back in the old house and amongst familiar faces that the mood when they returned to Downton had been jolly.

"You wouldn't believe the number of lady drivers in London," Edith had swooned, while Mary had been full of the latest fashions and her success in convincing Sir Richard they should not set a wedding date until the war had ended.

"It would be too unseemly to plan such a grand affair when the rest of the world is at war," she'd said, and Sybil did not bother to point out that just now many couples were marrying as an antidote to that very same war.

They settled back into their old routines quickly and Sybil was good to her word to Mrs. Hughes and curtailed her late night visits to the garage. Just when she felt that she must, must, find a way to see Branson, her mother asked her to pick up a few items in town one afternoon. Ordinarily she would have been displeased to be asked to leave her nursing duties, but the promise of sanctioned hours in Branson's company was too rich a prize to protest.

"Shall I take the car, mama?"

"I don't believe Edith has returned yet. She has been pleading with your father to go for a drive since we returned from London. The sight of all those women motoring about was too much for her! You may ask Branson to drive you in the new car, if you like, although I still can't get used to riding in it."

The new car was Robert's pride, but the Crawley women all preferred the older car, especially Cora and Mary who practically refused to ride in it.

"In that case, I'm happy to walk."

"Please ask Branson to accompany you."

Sybil didn't mind the new car the way her mother and sisters did, but she had calculated, correctly, that her mother would want Branson to chaperone her and walking would mean significantly more time with him that driving. She nearly laughed when she thought of him acting as her chaperone, but simply nodded her agreement and started off toward the garage.

"How can I help you?" Branson asked, seeing her, for afternoon visits were nearly always a matter of business.

"Mama has asked me to pick up several items for her in town. She has suggested I walk and asked that I have you accompany me."

As they set out toward town, Sybil set a decidedly slower pace than normal, determined to savor the afternoon.

"Bates and Carson returned in an excellent mood. It seems they enjoyed themselves in London."

"But not O'Brien?" Sybil asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. She turned toward Branson, closing the distance between them so that instead of the customary two steps behind that he was maintaining, he found himself less than a step behind her. He laughed.

"I trust your family enjoyed their visit, as well."

"I think they did, yes. Especially Edith. Apparently she is mad for all the lady drivers she saw in London and is determined to be among their ranks the next time she returns."

"She'll be putting me out of a job in no time, she will."

"Won't you put yourself out of a job? When you return to Ireland, that is?"

"That's up to you, milady," he said quietly.

Sybil did not respond and Branson decided against pushing the matter. Nothing positive would come of ruining an afternoon with her by arguing, and he was particularly loathe to do so as Lady Grantham's request required that they spend the afternoon in one another's company.

"Are you pleased that they've returned?" His normal tone and voice had returned and, as if to thank him for not pressing her, Sybil turned and smiled broadly. At this rate the walk into town would take all afternoon.

"I am rather, yes. In some ways I did enjoy my independence while they were away, but it is nice to see them again." She paused for a moment then asked, "Do you miss your family, Branson?"

"Every day, milady, I miss them every day."

"You've often told me about your siblings, but I feel I know very little of your mother. Would you tell me about her?"

He did not know if it was genuine curiosity that led her to ask or if this was a peace offering for refusing to have the conversation he so desperately wanted to have with her, but it pleased him to speak of his mother and so, for the rest of way into Ripon he spoke of her mother. He told her of her sense of discipline, how she valued education, how hard she worked, and her nights by the fire sewing and stitching until her fingers nearly bled.

"I should like to meet her one day," Sybil said as they arrived at the shops, and it was all Branson to could do to stand calmly outside while she collected what her mother requested. If that wasn't an indication that she was thinking, seriously, of running away him, then what was? He whistled in the sunshine while she made her purchases and then carried them for her as they walked back to Dowton together.

And then with the late night knock at the door, the idyll was shattered as Sybil waited with the rest of her family for Matthew's battered body to arrive from the battlefield of Amiens. Every person at Downton, upstairs and down, waited with trepidation. Anna coped with her sadness the best way she knew, asking Mr. Bates to walk with her to the village church to pray. When she spoke to him of the troubles they were all facing back at Downton she thought most immediately of Matthew's and William's injuries, but as she offered up her prayers she considered all of their troubles – that Mary had lost her one true love in irreparable act of selfishness and that Sybil would either be denied hers, or else tear the family apart in choosing him. The trouble with Mrs. Bates seemed trivial compared to the troubles facing the Crawleys at the moment.

Sybil would have liked very much to go to the church herself, but she knew it was more important to be by Mary's side when Matthew arrived at the hospital. By now, Sybil had seen scores of the wounded arrive fresh from the killing fields of France and she was prepared for the mud and the blood that inevitably abounded when they first arrived. How Mary would cope she could not imagine, and the last thing she'd needed as she steeled herself for her most difficult challenge as a nurse yet was an argument from Branson over showing her feelings.

Was Mary still in love with him, Branson had asked and the truth was she feared so but hoped not. Matthew would marry Lavinia and Mary would marry Sir Richard and this was the way their lives would be. Remembering what might have been would be of no use to anyone. Could he not see that?

For Branson the exchange was one more exercise in futility with Lady Sybil. They discussed virtually everything and had almost no secrets – except for their, and especially her, innermost feelings and desires. If she couldn't even admit that Mary still loved Matthew – which any fool could clearly see – how would she ever find the courage to admit she loved him?

They drove to the hospital in silence.

The sight of Matthew was worse than Sybil expected and she was surprised at how well Mary bore up when they brought him in. She remembered her first encounters with the wounded in York and how she had recoiled from them and their wounds. The only thing more surprising to her than Mary's newfound strength was the appearance of Mary's small stuffed dog falling from his uniform. Yes, Mary was still in love with Matthew, but was it possible that Matthew was also still in love with her? It would be bad enough to see Mary wed Sir Richard because Matthew no longer loved her, but for the two of them to be in love with one another and yet each still wed others because of pride or circumstance seemed a crueler fate than any Sybil could imagine.

When Branson picked her up from the hospital that evening she asked her to drive him around back rather than to the front of the house. He pulled the car into the garage and still she made no motion to move. It wasn't until he turned around and faced her directly that she spoke.

"She's still in love with him, Branson. Very much so, I believe. Worse, I believe he's also in love with her."

She told him then about Mary's stuffed dog, that favorite toy she had carted with her everywhere for years, and how it was the only non-military issue item to make the journey with Matthew. By the time she finished she was close to tears.

"But I don't understand, milady, if they're both still in love with one another as you believe, then why not just marry each other?"

"Because, Branson, they're too proud and too stubborn to admit it, and too afraid of how it would look to break their engagements to Miss Swire and Sir Richard."

"But isn't it too high a price to pay to not be with the one you love out of pride?"

"Mary certainly looks miserable, yes, but I suppose that's a question only she – and he – can answer."

"I only hope it's a question you'll be prepared to answer as well."

She leaned toward him slightly, as though contemplating what it would be like to kiss him, before she straightened her back, opened her door, and stepped from the car. He was right of course; she was on a collision course with her future for she loved him desperately and could no longer imagine a life without him by her side. Yet, she could no sooner imagine summoning the necessary strength to break with her family than she could imagine a life without him. The only aspect of war for which she was grateful was that it delayed the decision she must make and the questions she must answer.

The next days at the hospital had been worse than the day Matthew arrived, for Dr. Clarkson soon decreed the damage to Matthew's spine permanent. He would not walk again, he would not have children, and Downton would again be without an heir. When her father asked Sybil to inform Branson that Mary would be on the late train that evening she also hoped to share some of these weightier concerns with him. Yet, he seemed to be more interested in the czar than in Matthew Crawley himself. Yes, politics and the affairs of the world interested her, but still she had needed to muster an inner calm not to shout, "Matthew Crawley will never walk again and you're concerned about the czar," as he moped about the Russian imperial family.

And then he had started in on his talk of sacrifices. At that moment, with two men whose own sacrifices left them in various states of injury and death, this artificial talk was more than she could bear. She turned on her heels to leave and that was when she felt his hand on her waist. His hand was warm and strong and in that moment she knew that she would choose a quiet life with him over titles and fortunes and estates. She wanted badly to lean into him then, to kiss him finally and forever, she wanted to with every ounce of her being but, no, she decided, she would wait.

* * *

><p>With Isobel's arrival and the stabilization of Matthew's condition, Sybil was needed less at the hospital. She did not see Branson for several days, until he drove her, along with Edith and the Dowager Countess to the church for William's funeral. Branson liked William very much and was especially sad for him to have died in what were certainly the waning days of the war. Although he had not found cause to enter the local church in the five-plus years he had worked at Downton Abbey, Branson made an exception that day and stood along the back wall listening to the service.<p>

As the congregation intoned the closing prayer Branson felt the power of the words: _thy will be done. _It was what he prayed each morning when he arose and each night before he slept. The entire service really was not so different from what he was used to in the Catholic Church, he had to admit, and wondered again at the way that men and nations made war upon one another. He did not attend the burial itself, waiting at the car while the three women paid their last respects along with Mr. Mason, Daisy, and a small handful of the staff.

"It's so sad," he heard Sybil say to her grandmother and Edith as she entered the car. "They were married for less than one day."

"But at least they were married," Edith responded. "I should think it would be better to have known love and lost it than to have never known it all."

"I disagree, Edith. I don't believe the heart ever fully recovers when love is lost. No, better to live unfulfilled but unknowing than to have true love torn apart."

"I should think Mary would agree with Sybil," the Dowager Countess said, then seemed to think better of it. "Of course I wouldn't try to tell her that."

He reminded himself to be patient; all signs indicated that she loved him and that she would one day own up to this love. In the meantime he must wait. He pressed his hand tightly into hers when he helped her from the car that day, anxious for the day he might finally hold her hand for longer than it took for her to climb in or out of the car.


	11. Chapter 11

As the last summer of the war turned to autumn, Sybil saw little of Branson. She was preoccupied with Matthew, certainly, and she was conscious of keeping her promise to Mrs. Hughes. The housekeeper was taking a tremendous risk by agreeing not to give her away and Sybil was terrified by the prospect of causing Mrs. Hughes – or Anna, to say nothing of Branson – to lose her position because of Sybil's actions. They were right, of course; her situation was untenable, particularly now as she felt she could no longer fully trust herself in Branson's presence. The temptation to lean into his embrace, to press her lips to his for once and forever was too great. Still, for reasons she could notexplain even to herself, she felt she must wait for the war to end before embarking on a new life.

"Mr. Branson asked about you this afternoon, milady," Anna said one evening as she helped Lady Sybil change for dinner. "He says he has not seen you for a great many days. He wanted to know if you'd taken ill."

The last time she had visited the garage he had commented on her absence as well, and she hoped that her assurance that she was not avoiding him but still considering her decision would be sufficient. Now another week had past and again he seemed concerned.

"What did you tell him, Anna?" She was not avoiding him, not really, and she was anxious that he not believe that she was."

"I told him that you'd not taken ill, milady, but that you were once again terribly busy with your nursing."

"Thank you, Anna."

"I also told him, milady, that you spend a tremendous amount of time wandering about this house and the grounds staring vacantly into the middle distance."

"Did you really, Anna?" Sybil was shocked that Anna would discuss her in this way with Branson, even if what she said was true.

Anna smiled. "Of course not. But that is what I have noticed and others as well."

"Yes. You see, I'm trying to imagine just what my life would be like if I married Branson."

"And what would it be like?"

"That's jus it, Anna. I don't know."

"Milady, I don't believe there is any way for one to know. Love is a leap of faith. Either you love someone enough to jump in with both feet and face an unknown future – together – or you don't."

What Anna said, Sybil realized, was another version of Branson's thinking that, if she loved him, the rest was detail.

Sybil decided after her conversation with Anna that she must find her way back to the garage. She did not want Branson to think she was avoiding him. The greater consideration she gave to a future as his wife, the more important it was that he not think she had made up her mind once and for all to stay at Downton. That night she managed a short trip, when she announced after dinner that she had forgotten to ask Branson to take her to the hospital first thing tomorrow. It was true, she had forgotten, although she had also asked Anna to relay the message to him earlier. He looked up when she entered the garage.

"Anna said you asked about me, Branson."

"I haven't seen you much. I hoped you weren't ill."

"Not ill, no. Just thinking about the future."

He smiled and relaxed perceptibly. "Do you remember what I said in York?" She nodded. Of course she remembered; how could she forget? Whatever she decided about her future, his words in York would be burned into her mind until she departed this earth.

"I still mean every word of it. Every waking moment." She had no doubt, but her heart leaped at hearing the words spoken again.

Damn, he thought after she left that night. He wanted to shake her, to make her see how obvious her love for him was, to prevent her from repeating Mary's mistakes, from breaking both their hearts. Damn, he thought again. Imagine marrying someone you don't love, spending half a century bound to him, because your pride and your fears prevented you marrying the man you love. Me. You love me. Bet on me. For everything had had already said, though, he could not bring himself to make this final closing case. Instead he wrote to his mother that he hoped to be home sometime early next year and to the editor he had met on his trip home nearly a year ago. _Kindly inform me of any positions at your newspaper_, he had written. Perhaps he could force her hand.

And then the war ended. After 51 months of bloodletting, the guns went quiet. When Sybil heard the news she immediately thought how neatly Branson had bookended this war for her: the war had begun at a sunny garden party where she had looked down to find her fingers interlaced with his and it had ended with his promise the night before. And, of course, she could not forget how, in the middle of the war, he had removed his hat, looked her in the eyes, and sent her world spinning and turning like a small child's top.

It was late November when the last of the convalescents – save Matthew – left Downton. Returning the great house from hospital facility to home required much physical labor and, with few healthy, young men available, Branson had been happy to help when Carson asked. The work had the added benefit of stolen moments in Lady Sybil's presence. They were careful never to speak out of turn – the miladys that he'd gradually dropped from their conversations returned in force – but if anyone had cared to pay attention, the two of them might easily have been found out by the furtive glances they exchanged at regular intervals.

She surprised him by coming to see him in dinner dress soon after the war ended. After years of nursing dresses and mourning clothes, he had very nearly forgotten how very fine a vision she was when turned out in the finest clothes money could buy. As he stood, soaking her in, he despaired for one fleeting moment at the prospect that, by marrying him, she should no longer attire herself in these beautiful garments. This thought was quickly overtaken, however, by the thought of her dressed not in this way, but honestly not at all. He studied her standing before him and in that moment, he would have sold his soul to the devil to hear her say she would follow him to the ends of the earth as his wife. It was not to be, however, at least not that night, and her smooth, gloved palm pressed to his cheek was a small consolation.

She told him that she had almost decided, but this was not true. She knew when she entered the garage that night that she would bind her fate to his, but before she told him this, she needed to carefully consider what came next. They could not stay at Downton, obviously, but she wasn't sure they should sail – unmarried – for Ireland either. She would be Lady Sybil Crawley or she would be Mrs. Tom Branson, but she would not be mistaken for the mistress of a chauffeur. She loved him too much, and had too much dignity, for that. And did he have enough saved to tide them over until they could both find work? Where would they live? These were the thoughts that filled her mind night and day; for the first time in her life, she felt she had no one to show her the way.

Who knows how long she might have existed in this overwrought state, desperate to announce her decision but made restless by the overabundance of questions in her mind, had Matthew not regained the ability to walk. The look on Mary's face when Matthew and Lavinia announced their engagement for a second time was all the impetus Sybil needed to admit her decision to Branson and embark on a new life. Secure in the knowledge that her family was basking in the joy – or ruminating in the heartbreak – of wedding news, she slipped out of the house and toward the garage, undetected. Here, two full years after he had sworn his love to her, she announced her decision and sealed it with a kiss.

He felt his ears may be failing him when at last she revealed she would be his bride. And the kiss, her kiss, he had never shared one sweeter. He could have stood there forever with her in his arms, savoring the moment he had long dreamed for, even prayed for, but could scarcely believe when it did. Yes, God knew, he had waited long enough. Sybil had much on her mind, however, pulling back from him and looking him squarely in the eyes.

"I think," she began hesitantly, "that perhaps you might call me Sybil now. And I would like to call you Tom."

How many years had he waited to hear his names, his proper, given name, cross her beautiful lips? She had said it once, three Christmases ago, when he had asked how she knew his initials for the handkerchiefs she monogrammed. For nearly three years now, the mirthful way she had laughed his name danced in his mind, sustaining him on his darkest days. Remembering this, he removed one of those same handkerchiefs from his pocket, a reminder of a different time. She smiled at this and delicately took both the handkerchief and his hand into her own.

"Very well, Sybil," he said seriously, dropping his eyes to the ground before bringing them up to meet her gaze again.

"While we are speaking of serious things, I must say this: I love you, Sybil Crawley, and I have loved you desperately and completely for many years. But I do not want to be your ticket to some other life. I want to be your husband. God knows, you deserve to be happy and to marry a man whom you love above all others. Do not choose me because I can take you from this place. Choose me because you love me and you want to spend your life with me."

She drew in her breath sharply.

"Tom Branson, you can be a real fool." He was startled by the force of her words and the tone of her voice, to say nothing of the content of what she said, but decided it would be wise to allow her to continue.

"I dare say I may have loved you for as long as you have loved me. It is not for nothing that I tried to hush you in York, that I begged you not to leave when you threatened to hand in your notice, and that I have fought to keep you here when Papa would have dismissed you. I have spent years telling lies to nearly every person who lives and works in this house and I have endangered the livelihoods, to say nothing of the respect, of half the staff working here. When I leave here with you, I will be leaving this place – my home, my friends, my family, and all I have ever known – to travel to Ireland, where I know no one and nothing. It will be with little money and fewer prospects and it will be to a country that is soon to be at war with my own. I hope you will never again question whether I love you."

Her speech, the most impassioned words he was sure he had ever heard spoken, stunned him. He had rarely stopped to consider the cross that she must bear all of these that he had toiled in the garage waiting for their next encounter. She had drawn others, like Anna, Mary, and Mary and Mrs. Hughes into their secret, in a way that would have repercussions for her and her family for years to come. He had no words; all that had gone unspoken between them for years was now said. There was nothing for Branson, for Tom, to do then except to pull her into his embrace and kiss her with the fervor and the passion that had grown unchecked for so many years.

When at last she pulled away, she asked for the time, which was later than she hoped.

"I really must go now, Tom, although I am sorry to have to leave you."

"Soon enough we will not be parted except by choice." He could hardly believe that this would finally be true.

"But please tell me, Sybil, when I will see you again. We have lived this way long enough, too long even, God knows, and we must now make plans. I can't live this way much longer."

"Tomorrow then. I do not know when, or whether it will be a visit to the garage or a drive to town, but you will see me tomorrow. It will not be long now, but until we have left we must continue to play this game."

"Good night, Sybil. I love you."

"Good night, Tom."

Neither of them slept a wink that night, as each carefully relived the events of the day and considered how greatly their lives were about to change.

* * *

><p>Anna was the one to notice, or at least to acknowledge, that Lady Sybil's demeanor had changed. She seemed more lost than Anna had ever known her to be and Anna noticed that not only she, but Lady Mary and Lady Edith as well often had to repeat themselves when they spoke to her. It was not difficult to for her to guess at the cause for this behavior; it also was not lost on her that Lady Sybil had begun to request a tray for breakfast, but hadn't yet been in her room when Anna brought it. Yes, for the past several days Lady Sybil had absented herself in the early morning hours, rather than in the evening. Anna also knew that Mr. Branson did not join breakfast in the servants' hall, as was frequently his custom. Anna would have had to be daft to not put two-and-two together.<p>

The change in schedule was wise, Anna admitted to herself, for the end of the war signaled a return to more leisurely mornings in the house – there were no more early risers – but dinner could stretch late into the evening. Catching Lady Sybil one morning as she returned from one of these early outings.

"So you've made your decision, milady," Anna said mildly.

Sybil blushed and shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes, Anna, I have."

"I'll not say anything, but I'm happy for you, Lady Sybil. I know it's not been easy – for your or Mr. Branson. I hope you'll be very happy together."

Anna had felt with every bit of her being that Lady Sybil would choose a life with him over life in another version of Downton Abbey. Still, she was in awe of the decision, knowing her ladyship's inner turmoil and the strength it took her to make the decision. She truly hoped they would be happy.

"Thank you, Anna. You're right, of course, that it hasn't been easy. I'm afraid it may yet be more difficult – when Papa finds out."

Anna did not envy her – or Mr. Branson – the task of telling his lordship. He was bound to be furious and for a moment Anna hoped she would not lose her position when it came out, as it inevitably would, that she had known of their blossoming courtship and reported it to no one.

"So when will you leave?"

"I don't know yet. Tom and I were discussing just that this morning. I believe it will be soon though."

Arguing would have been a more accurate description of this conversation, Sybil thought a bit bitterly, but their fire was part of what drew them to one another, so it should not have surprised her that they would argue now. Unlike previous disagreements, however, when she would have turned to Anna for support, she now felt that, as his future wife, it would be disloyal to do so and she said nothing further.

That morning they had argued not only when to leave, which had been odd in that, ultimately, they each wanted to leave as soon as possible, but especially whether they would be married before or after they arrived in Ireland and even whether his mother would know they were coming before they landed on the docks in Dublin.

"I want her to meet you before she forms an opinion of you," he'd argued, he thought reasonably. Sybil however felt Mrs. Branson might be even more disinclined to like her if she felt her manners were so poor as to not enough extend the courtesy of an advance warning of her arrival.

"She won't like to have a stranger appear on her doorstep with no notice, particularly a stranger who may need lodging."

Sybil wanted him to write his mother and then await a reply before they departed. Here, Tom stood firm. A letter would take at least a week to reach Ireland and who knew how long he might have to wait for a reply. After waiting years, years, for her accept him, he could not abide this further, and to his mind unnecessary, delay. Even Tom had to acknowledge, though that whether and where they would live in Ireland depended largely, if not entirely, on whether they were married when they arrived.

"I don't want to arrive unwed, Tom. If people believe we haven't done this properly, I'll never find a place as a nurse."

The latter was a fine and valid point, for they both knew that they would need her income as well as his if they were to live an even moderately comfortable life.

"You can stay with my mam until we're married, Sybil."

"I want to be married first. If we've already traveled to Ireland – and if she doesn't even know the circumstances – she'll assume…" Sybil's voice trailed off and she blushed, dropping her eyes to her shoes.

"Tom hadn't thought of this, but Sybil was right. His mother would assume she was in trouble and however cool a reception he might expect to receive when he returned home with an English earl's daughter as a bride, it would be that much worse if he allowed his mother to draw her own conclusions.

"Fine. We'll marry first. But I'll not write my mother. We've waited long enough and I can't well write her and leave before I receive a response and I'm of no mind to wait to marry you until I receive one."

"Where will we marry, Tom?"

"If it were up to me, I'd marry in a Dublin church. If you want to marry elsewhere, you tell me where."

She promised a plan by the next morning, when she would meet him again. Obviously the village church was out of the question and she had few other ideas. Perhaps Gretna Green? She knew people married there when they had no other options, which pretty well described their situation. They would have to drive in order to avoid being detected at the station, but she was confident they could be married and back to return the car, within two days. Then they would be married and, however, angry anyone – and everyone – would be, nothing further could be done.

A great stroke of fortune befell them later that morning when Cora asked Sybil to fetch her some things from town. Sybil would not have to wait until the next morning to share her plans with Tom; perhaps they could even leave that night. As the car rumbled down the driveway and toward the main road, she told him what she had decided. His reaction was not what she expected.

"You want to steal your father's car when you run away with me?"

"It won't be stealing, Tom, it will just be borrowing. We'll return it the next day."

Tom was incredulous. Yes, he thought, I'm sure that's just the way his lordship will view it. This thought was followed almost immediately by the thought that Lord Grantham would certainly kill them, or at least him, when they returned. Sybil had gradually revealed to him the duplicity she'd been forced to resort to during their unusual courtship, but this topped everything.

"Well we certainly can't be married in the village church and I have no other ideas. … Anyway, I'll say I'm ill at dinner and leave a note. You can tell Carson or Anna that you're ill and by the time anyone has realized what happened, we'll be married."

Against his better judgment and out of other ideas to persuade her otherwise, he agreed. They would leave that night. And, God, he prayed, if we are ever so lucky to have a daughter, may she please never have cause to perpetuate against us the pain that Sybil is about to perpetuate against her own family.


	12. Chapter 12

Sybil was grateful to find two small cases in the back of her wardrobe which she quickly filled with a few articles of clothing and fewer personal affects. Most of what she possessed, she decided, did not truly belong to her and, even if she sought to take more with her, she couldn't very well lug her biggest trunks to the garage unaided and undetected. Tom had suggested that she take only a small bag with them and fetch her suitcases or trunks when they returned, but while they might return the car to the garage, she wasn't delusional enough to believe that, once she married the chauffeur, she would be welcome across the threshold of the great house again.

Tom's task was more complicated as he was loathe to leave any of his decidedly meager belongings. He eventually settled on packing most of his possessions into trunks, which he would retrieve when they returned the car, and a handful of essential items he packed into a small case to take on the short trip to Scotland. Sybil determined that tea time would afford her the best opportunity for removing her suitcases undetected from the house and so, while her mother and sisters sat in the drawing room sipping tea and munching whatever sweet Mrs. Patmore could conjure for the afternoon, Sybil slunk down the stairs and out the back door.

"What time will we leave, Sybil?" Tom asked nervously, terrified of her plan, yet preferring to execute it sooner rather than later.

"We'll leave before dinner. I'll tell Anna that I've taken ill and won't be down for dinner tonight. You should do the same."

He nodded hesitantly, unsure at that moment whether he was more scared to be running away with Lord Grantham's youngest daughter or to be stealing one of the family cars. Sybil could call it what she liked, but Tom understood enough of the world to know that a chauffeur driving off on an unsanctioned jaunt through the country would be sufficient grounds for most judges to lock away the chauffeur long enough for the daughter to forget her designs on marrying him.

By the time Sybil appeared shortly before dinner, Tom's heart was in his throat, everything he owned was packed neatly away, and the little cottage where he lived for nearly six years had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. They may hate me, he thought as he cleaned, but let them never doubt that Sybil will have a good, clean home. His only regret was that he had not yet received a response for the paper in Dublin.

While he had been cleaning and packing, Sybil sat hunched over her desk writing and re-writing this most difficult of letters. Running short of time and dissatisfied with her previous efforts, she settled for a simple note:

_To my family:_

_I am sorry to part from you in this way, but I have left to marry Tom. I love him terribly and am only sorry to know that you will not share in my happiness. We will be marred in Gretna Green before returning the car home and sailing for Dublin. _

_All my love._

_Sybil_

She tucked it into an envelope and rang for Anna.

"I'm afraid I am rather unwell this evening, Anna. Please tell my family that I won't be able to join them for dinner tonight."

Only a short time earlier, Anna had been downstairs and overheard Mr. Branson offering a similar excuse to Mr. Carson. So this was it, was it? She had never doubted that Lady Sybil would find a way, not since that morning so many years before when a small, blue book materialized from between the mattresses, but nevertheless, Anna was surprised to feel tears form in her eyes. She wiped them away quickly, not wanting to add to Lady Sybil's already great burden.

"I'm sorry, Anna. I am truly, truly sorry."

"Yes, milady. I'll let them know."

"And good luck to you," Anna added quietly, before turning toward the stairs to allow Lady Sybil the dignity of whatever exit she had planned for herself.

It pained Sybil not to be able to say good-bye to her family but she hoped they might one day come around and their parting might not be forever. Still, as Tom drove the car as quietly as possible toward the main road, Sybil was seized by the possibility that she might never again see her home. They had decided she would ride as usual in the back until they were well beyond town, so as not to arouse the suspicions of any acquaintances they might meet on the road. When he heard a muffled sob escape Sybil's lips as they turned onto the main road he was grateful she was in the back, for her pain would have been too deep and too raw if she were next to him and he would have been tempted to call it off and seek another way.

Sybil's despair was short-lived and as she turned her thoughts to her future as Mrs. Tom Branson, she decided to take advantage of her position behind him, and the fact that he could not spare more than a fleeting glance over his shoulder to ask a question that had nagged her since she first allowed him to kiss her nearly a week earlier.

"Tom, have you kissed many girls before me?" It took nearly all of her considerable courage to form the words, but as she did, she had the sensation of a weight being lifted from her chest.

The question surprised him such that he nearly drove the car off the road, and he heard her gasp as the car swerved. The truth, of course, was yes. He didn't know how future dukes and lords conducted themselves, although he certainly had a few guesses, but future chauffeurs, footmen, and dockworkers absolutely knew their way around the fairer sex well before reaching the age of majority, an age he had attained nearly a decade earlier.

"A few milady, only a few." Compared to the record his brother was continuing to compile, this was true. More precisely he had taken somewhere in the neighborhood of a half dozen girls into his arms before Sybil, but the exact number, he was confident, was more than she needed to know and he hoped she wouldn't press the point.

"Tom, you don't have to call me 'milady'!" They both laughed, but the truth was that for him 'milady' had ceased to be a term of respect or rank and had morphed into one of endearment and affection.

"So how many lads have been lucky enough to share your kiss?" He knew he shouldn't have asked, and certainly if he were a gentleman such and question would be unthinkable, but he couldn't help himself. He really was curious if she had kissed anyone else.

"Only one. It was my season before the war. His name was Tom, too, and I thought perhaps that I might even marry him one day. This must all sound very silly now."

"Not at all. So tell me, what happened to this other Tom?"

"He was killed at Verdun."

Tom flashed back to one of their first great arguments, the time he had spoken to her so harshly that he had nearly flown to Ripon after she stalked from the garage and posted a note of apology to her. Thinking back, he was ashamed; he suspected even then that the particular friend she mourned was more a friend than most. Still, he had added to her grief at the time she received the news and he regretted it still. She was quiet then and he wondered if she, too, was reliving this earlier episode in their relationship.

He need not have worried, or rather, he might have worried about the new direction her thoughts had taken.

"Have you ever? … I mean, did you ever…?" Her voice trailed off and she felt the blood rush into her cheeks. She could not make herself ask what she really wanted to know. God knew, the closest she'd ever come to a proper conversation on the topic was the whispered tones in which she'd learned of Mary's transgression with Mr. Pamuk.

He let her squirm for a minute and debated whether to make her say the words before issuing any response. Perhaps she would drop the subject if he simply ignored it. But this felt wrong, so he drew in his breath and plunged ahead.

"Do you really want to know, Sybil?" he asked quietly. This was not a conversation he expected or was prepared for, but he knew no matter what else in their lives transpired, he owed it to her then and always to be honest with her.

"Yes, I do," she said rather boldly, the confidence in her tone surprising both of them.

He sighed, glad again that at least she was behind him and he did not have to look into her eyes as they discussed this.

"Yes." He felt her begin to form another question and did not wait to see where this line of questioning might begin – or end.

"Sybil, I love you as I have loved no woman in my life. You have nothing to worry about."

As they drove on in silence, his respect for her continued to grow. He could not imagine many women, let alone one of her class, who would be so brash as to confront such a topic on their way to the altar. She was unlike any woman he had ever known and, not for the first time since she declared her love for him, he sent a silent prayer of thanks into the heavens that she was his.

Once they were safely beyond the town limits Sybil moved to the front passenger seat. The night had grown rather late by then and she fretted over how much further they still needed to travel.

"Do you think we can make it to Gretna Green tonight?"

"I don't know. I don't have any idea how much farther it is."

He had looked at a map before they left, but he had no idea how long it would take to cover the distance or even how much distance remained.

"Do you think we should stop for the night?"

He raised his eyebrows. Surely she knew they couldn't take a room together for the night. Yet, in the smaller and smaller villages which they passed, where most inns had at best three or four rooms, they would almost certainly be forced to do so.

"And how would we do that?"

"We could say we're already married, Tom. We're far from Downton. No one would know."

While Sybil and Tom were debating where and how to spend the night, Mary was reading the note Sybil wrote that afternoon.

"Anna, did you know about this?"

"I feared as much, milady." It was as close to the truth as Anna could admit at that moment.

"We have to stop them. Return the key to Mrs. Hughes and get a message to Edith. She'll have to drive. Tell Mrs. Hughes that you'll sit with me tonight, as I've also taken ill. We'll leave as soon as dinner ends so not give mama and papa too much cause for suspicion."

Mary was furious, but she knew instinctively that drawing her parents in at this moment would only make things worse, especially when she might still catch them and prevent Sybil from committing this ultimate act of selfish stupidity.

* * *

><p>"You both knew and neither of you told me?" Edith asked incredulously as she drove toward Gretna Green.<p>

"Oh, Edith, I hoped she was just being silly. I didn't want to alarm the whole family."

"I'm not the whole family. I would have kept her secret."

"You certainly didn't keep mine."

The two sisters fumed while Anna stared intently out of the windows. How had her life become so intertwined with theirs, she wondered? For, at that moment, she felt as if her destiny were as much in the balance as Lady Sybil's. Lady Mary might protest all she liked, but when his lordship got wind of what happened, she would certainly be sacked. When she finally cried out that she saw the car, a wave of relief washed over the three women.

Anna stayed in the car while Mary and Edith rushed into the Swan Inn.

"Excuse me. I would like to see Tom Branson. I believe he has taken a room here." Mary used her most imperious tone with the elderly innkeeper.

"Ah, yes, Mr. and Mrs. Branson checked in a few hours ago. Their room is just at the top of the stairs."

Mr. and Mrs. Branson! Good God in heaven, had they somehow managed to marry in only the few hours since they left Downton? Mary knew that Gretna Green had a 21-day waiting period, but had they somehow, somewhere found another place to be married?

She burst into their room expecting the worst and thanked God when she found they were not staying as a married couple, but that both were fully clothed and Sybil was alone in the bed. Mercifully, nothing had happened and Sybil might yet be saved. In fact, Sybil resisted being taken from the room far less than Mary had expected. So this would be a simple matter after all, would it? She could give her father a basic version of the facts tomorrow at breakfast and Branson would be on his way to Ireland before dinner.

As they entered the car, Edith and Anna in the front and Mary and Sybil in the back, Mary asked, "So what exactly was your plan, darling?"

By now Sybil had lost whatever composure she had maintained and her response came in bursts, sobs puncturing her words.

"I … never should have … left a note." Here she heaved a heart wrenching sob into the night.

"It was … in the letter." She paused to collect herself.

"We were … going to be married … in Gretna Green."

"Tomorrow?" Mary asked, disbelieving that her sister's naïveté could extend this far.

"Yes, tomorrow."

"If ever I needed further proof that you know absolutely nothing about life, darling, then here it is. Gretna Green has a 21-day waiting period. You can't simply stroll into town in the morning and expect to be married by luncheon."

Mary threw back her head and laughed cruelly, but she had overplayed her hand.

In a controlled and icy tone that reminded all four women far more of Mary than of Sybil, Sybil leveled a final repartee.

"If you say anything to papa, Mary, I shall tell him of Mr. Pamuk. And I shall not stop with him. Sir Richard may not publish the black and white facts that his fiancée is a whore, but there are many other newspapers that would be only too happy for their readers to learn of Lady Mary Crawley's exploits over their breakfast. And before he can read it in his morning paper, I shall tell Cousin Matthew of the details myself."

Mary sucked in a great breath while Edith and Anna held theirs.

"I love Tom Branson and I will marry him. You may have delayed this but you will not stop it. That is a promise I make before God."

The night sky was streaked with the beginning of the morning when at last Edith pulled the car into the garage. No one had spoken since Sybil made her threat – and her promise. Quietly, the four women entered the house and made their way to their respective rooms. All three Crawley sisters nursed angers and hurts, but none more than Sybil. She was exhausted, but before giving herself over to sleep she jotted a quick note:

_Do not leave me now. We will survive this together._

She awoke several hours later and rang for Anna to deliver the note when she next saw him. Anna wanted to refuse; the stakes were higher now, but one look and she knew Lady Sybil was not asking as an employer but as a friend; Anna could not deny her this favor.

It was almost dinner before Anna saw Mr. Branson. He looked more tired and drawn than she had ever seen him. If Mr. Carson had cause to wonder at the veracity of his illness the day before, one look at him now was enough to convince anyone that the chauffeur was ailing. After her adventure the night before, Anna did not look much better, and the other servants were happy to give them wide berth, lest whatever ailed them was catching.

"Mr. Branson, I have something for you," Anna said quietly as he sat drinking a cup of tea. She pushed the paper toward him, careful that Thomas or O'Brien not see. He unfolded it and nodded.

"You were in the car," he said, seeing how tired she looked. "How is she?"

"Not well, Mr. Branson. She was worried about you. She _is_ worried about you. I think she has fixed things with Lady Mary though, so that your position will be safe."

He nodded again; he was surprised when he returned that neither his lordship nor Mr. Carson was waiting to dismiss him. So she had fixed things, had she? He wondered how she managed that. He had returned in great anger, but reading her note and hearing what Anna said, he felt some of his anger dissipate.

As he rose from the table, Anna reached for his arm.

"She loves you, Mr. Branson. Remember that."

* * *

><p>Sybil did not go to the garage the first night or even the second. She was stung by the realization that they could not marry in Gretna Green and needed time, not to face Tom, but to face the fact that they would have to sail for Ireland unwed. She had hoped to ring in 1919 as Mrs. Tom Branson, but as one December day bled into the next, it was clear that would not be the case.<p>

She might have risked a trip to the garage anyway, if not for Mary's admonishment the first morning after they returned from the Swan Inn.

"Be careful, Sybil. I've tried to warn you, but you won't listen to me. I'll not give you away because I see you're determined to destroy the family either way, but mind that you don't bring Papa down upon your head before you are prepared to meet his wrath."

Mary spoke in the same measured tone Sybil used the night before and to a similar effect. She then turned on her heels and walked, tall and proud, away from Sybil. They had not spoken since.

Sybil received a similar message from Tom, via Anna, who wrote, _I'll not leave you, milady. Please be careful._ How deep his anger with her ran was indiscernible from the few words scribbled hurriedly on the small page, but she hoped she could count on his understanding and not be forced to justify herself before him of all people.

By the third day she was desperate to see him and asked her mother, "Might Branson drive me to Ripon to do my Christmas shopping, Mama?"

"I don't believe you'll find much in the shops, my dear. I'm afraid we'll not have many gifts to exchange this year."

"May I have a look all the same? I might find something small."

Cora hesitated. The day was blustery and she was anxious that Sybil – so recently ill – not catch further sickness by running about on such a raw afternoon. The family wouldn't exchange many gives that year, she was certain, but she had noticed the changes in her youngest daughter since the end of the war. More often than not, Sybil had seemed distracted and at loose ends so if going to town would give her a purpose, then Cora supposed it couldn't hurt. She reluctantly agreed and it was all Sybil could do to keep from skipping from the library.

"You're in fine spirits this afternoon." Tom was surprised to see her in the middle of the day, to say nothing of his assumption that when he did see her she would not be in such a bright mood. He smiled broadly and moved to close the distance between them. Instinctively she backed away.

"Branson, I'd like to go shopping in Ripon. Will you drive me?"

At first he was taken aback by both her use of his last name and her formality. She was more observant than he, however, and was aware of Thomas who strode by within hearing distance as she spoke.

"Certainly, milady."

He brought the car from the garage and held the door as she climbed inside. Safely out of earshot once the doors were closed, she switched tones.

"Tom, I've missed you desperately. How are you?"

"Better than I expected to be. Anna told me you fixed my position with Mary. How did you manage it?"

By the time she finished the sordid tale of the Turkish diplomat, he was so thoroughly stunned that, had a response been required, he didn't believe he could have furnished one. He was stunned by Lady Mary's indiscretion and stunned by Sybil's cool calculation at using this moment of weakness against her sister in order to save him, to save them. As he drove toward the main road, he hoped he would never acquit himself in such a manner as to find himself in the future Mrs. Branson's crosshairs.

"Which shop, Sybil?"

"I won't find anything in any of them. Drive around town and then we'll return home."

If he had any doubt after the story about Lady Mary, this instruction confirmed that not only was the afternoon's trip was a ruse, but that she would do whatever she must to keep herself near him. As he drove, she spoke, turning the conversation to their future.

"I'm afraid we have no choice now but to marry in Ireland, Tom."

He nodded, sorry that this admission distressed her.

"I want to do it properly. You must write your mother. Tell her I will sail with you and we will be married in Dublin as soon as it is possible to do so. Then, we can sail in the spring."

"I don't understand the need to delay, Sybil. Why not leave for Ireland the way we left for Gretna Green?"

"There are several reasons. My sisters are correct that I must find the courage to face my family. I will do so, but first you must have a new position. Our decision will at least seem properly thought out then. Also, if you write your mother now and then we wait several months to sail, she will see that we didn't _have _to marry."

He had already written to the Dublin papers, but this second point had escaped him and was more than valid, especially if she was to establish herself as a nurse once they arrived. No one would hire a nurse of questionable morals, not least a British aristocrat who had run off with the family chauffeur. Yes, the onus would be on them to prove that their marriage was for love and not for any other reason. He agreed to write his mother; she would expect a Christmas post from him by the end of the year, so now was as fine a time as ever to deliver the news.

Sybil asked him to drive around back and as she stepped from the car and into the garage she kissed him lightly.

"Soon. We will be married soon."

He drew her to him, wrapping her in his arms.

"I love you, milady."

They drew apart and softly her heels clicked from the garage and toward the home that she longed to leave.


	13. Chapter 13

"Cora, dear, isn't it about time the girls were settled?" the Dowager Countess arched an eyebrow at her daughter-in-law, wondering how this woman had managed to raise three daughters none of whom was yet married. Sure, Mary was engaged to Sir Richard, but as the delays mounted, Violet began to think Mary might be 50 before she finally walked down the aisle.

"Well Mary is engaged to Sir Richard, Mama."

"I'm not speaking of Mary, dear. What of Sybil? I find it very strange that she hasn't got a beau. Or Edith? They're not growing any younger."

"You have to admit that most of the suitable young men are now been buried in France."

"Then they must find suitable older men. A woman without a husband! Well, I ask you, what is the point?"

"I should hardly force either of them to marry someone the age of their father."

"As I recall, Cora, Edith was quite keen on Sir Anthony Strallan. A pity that didn't work out – I imagine she won't have many other ardent suitors."

"Mama! I will not speak of my daughters in such a way! Please."

"Suit yourself, dear, but it's time to face the facts. Whatever Edith's prospects, there's no accounting for why Sybil isn't settled."

Although she hated to admit it, Cora had been pondering these same questions herself lately. Edith, of course, would be harder to settle but Sybil – bright, vibrant, beautiful Sybil – should be a prize for any man. Yet, whenever Cora mentioned some young man who might come to Downton for a weekend, Sybil became evasive and entirely disinterested. Cora would have to speak with her again, to make her understand that a young woman of her position was expected to marry, and the sooner the better.

Robert entered the room then and Violet turned her attention to her son.

"Robert, dear, I was just saying to Cora that it's high time you get your daughters settled."

Robert raised his eyebrows in response. Typically these matters were best left to his wife, and he would just as soon beat a hasty retreat, but he could see that Cora looked a bit brow beaten by his mother and so he stood still, waiting for more.

"Why not have a hunt, Robert, now that the war is over?"

Was she out of her mind? Granted, the guns had been silent for over a month, but men were still being mustered out and certainly it would be rather soon for any returned man to contemplate firing a gun.

"Really, mama, you can be so insensitive! The war has only just ended. It would be entirely inappropriate to stage a hunt this year."

"I don't see why not. We must all return to living properly, and the sooner the better in my book."

Robert could feel the vein at his temple pulsing in anger. This time he did not hesitate but parted immediately, leaving Cora to continue sipping tea with her mother-in-law.

While Violet sat in the drawing room advocating for urgent action to settle her granddaughters for once and for all, Tom was hunched over his desk putting pen to paper to his own family regarding the status of his relationship with Lady Sybil Crawley. He and Sybil had agreed that he would write the initial letter and then, after he had received a response, and provided that the response was not that the pair of them would be unwelcome in the Branson family home, Sybil would include a letter of introduction with his reply to the reply. He had spent most of the day at this task when he heard a light knocking at his door. It was Anna, bearing a message from Lady Grantham, by way of Mrs. Hughes, that Sir Richard would be arriving on the train that evening. Her official duties dispatched, Anna turned to leave before pausing.

"How are you, Mr. Branson? Really?"

"I'll not lie, Anna, I had hoped Sybil and I would be married by now and starting life in Dublin. We have waited so long…" his voice trailed off and he looked down.

"I understand Lady Mary has her reasons for not wanting to give us away, but what of Lady Edith?"

"I couldn't say, Mr. Branson, other than Lady Sybil seems quite certain that your secret is safe with her."

"She is the one who gave away Lady Mary's secret, though, isn't she?"

Anna hesitated, uncertain how much of her mistresses' business she wanted to share. Yet, it was clear he knew most of the story already and he would technically be joining the family, though not with their approval, of course..

"I'm afraid she is. But, Mr. Branson, after so many years in this house, you should know that Lady Mary and Lady Edith rarely behave as sisters. I believe many of us have enemies who are kinder than those two often are with one another. I really can't say why Lady Sybil believes Lady Edith won't give you away, but she does. In fact, I believe Lady Edith has been a source of support for Lady Sybil since, well since her return to Downton."

"Thank you."

"Have you written your mother, Mr. Branson?" Anna knew from both Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson that this was a task he dreaded.

"I have worked at it all day and I just can't seem to put it right."

"Perhaps you're making it too complicated, then. Just tell her the simple facts. You'll have time enough to fill in the rest later."

He was struck then by how wise Anna always seemed. Was it possible that she was the single force that kept everyone in the house functioning on the level? All three of the sisters trusted her explicitly, as did Lady Grantham, Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Bates, and he believed even Mr. Carson. She had supported William through the death of his mother and his struggles with Thomas, she had traveled to London with Mrs. Patmore, she had kept his and Sybil's secret for many years – to say nothing of Lady Mary's, and she had ridden on the fateful trip to the Swan Inn. How had he overlooked that it was she who allowed all of them to live and work as they did? Dear God, he thought, if you are a fair and just God, please allow this woman a long and happy life as the second Mrs. Bates.

"Thank you, Anna."

She departed and, infused with the good sense and confidence Anna bestowed upon him, he set to his task again, completing his letter in one go.

_Dear Mother,_

_Happy Christmas! The shops here are as empty as those in Dublin, but I hope to bring some scarce goods when I return to Ireland this spring. I am afraid that what follows will come as a bit of shock to you, but please believe me when I write that I have never been happier._

_I will return home with Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham for whom I have worked since I sailed for England many years ago. I love her unconditionally and am honored to report that my love is not unrequited. We plan to be married in Ireland as soon as the banns are read. During the war she worked as a nurse and would like to continue this work in Dublin._

_I hope to obtain a position as a journalist before we sail, which we plan to do come spring. I hoped that she might live with you until our marriage. I will take a room near to the family home until such time as we are wed and can live together._

_I am sure this news is a shock, but I hope we may both count on your love. _

_Your loving son._

_Tom_

* * *

><p>The Dowager Countess's words nagged Cora throughout the evening hours and into the night. As she and Robert slipped into bed that evening, she couldn't help but suggest that perhaps his mother was right and it was up to them to take a more proactive role in seeing to their daughters' futures.<p>

"But, Cora, we can't possible stage a hunt. And I don't see how we could arrange anything else. It's hardly the season the balls and it would appear such poor form."

"What about the servants' ball, Robert?"

"What about it?"

"Well, we've promised to hold one now that the war is over. Surely we could invite a few additional guests. It could mark a return to the old way of life."

He had agreed that the servants' ball would return now that the war had ended and it was also true that certainly no one would object to doing as his wife suggested. Reluctantly, he approved the plan; it was the least he could do, given his other decisions that winter regarding the Christmas holiday.

Throughout the war, Robert had done his utmost to uphold the traditions that had passed to him through the generations. A grand tree stood proudly in the main hall, fresh garlands wound their way up the stairs, and candles flickered gracefully in many a room. It had been but a small way to maintain a degree of normalcy throughout the grinding months of war. Now that the war had ended, however, so had the need for the pretense that some aspects of life could continue unchanged.

Now, for the first time in his life, Robert ordained that a tree would not rise and gifts would not be exchanged. Beyond the emotional reasons – that he was wrung out for the years of senseless loss and felt too adrift in the world to face the merriment of Christmas – there was a practical side. After a year of rationing, it would be nearly impossible to procure the gifts and trimmings that made Christmas what it was. He would rather celebrate not at all – or nearly so – than in the subdued manner that would have been necessary. So it was that Christmas 1918 was an understated and mild affair, capped by a simple but elegant dinner. Lady Rosamund and Sir Richard came by train from London, along with Lavinia's father, whom Isobel and Matthew knew, but the rest of the family met for the first time around the Christmas table.

As the meal wound down, Sybil excused herself with a headache. She made her way quietly to the garage, where Tom waited for her. The night was cold, but he felt certain she would come to him that night and, with Anna's assistance, he'd even succeeded earlier that day in making off with an extra portion of Christmas pudding so that they might share some small celebration in the quiet of the garage.

"Happy Christmas, Sybil," he beamed as she entered into the garage.

She did not hesitate but strode directly into his arms, wrapping her own about him as they shared a kiss.

He spun her around so that she could see the places he had set and she squealed with delight as she had upon learning that Gwen had got the job as a secretary. Having eaten more than usual at dinner so to distract herself from the conversation around her – something about a ball, perhaps, but it made no sense – she was not hungry, but dug in tidily to avoid disappointing him.

"I'm afraid I've not got any gift for you this year, Tom. I could find nothing in the shops."

"You may consider that you have agreed to become my wife gift enough for this Christmas, milady."

They talked into the night and then finally, as they heard the faraway toll of bells definitively proclaim the end to Christmas, she rose to leave. Taking his hands into hers she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Happy Christmas, Tom. And next year shall be even happier."

As he watched her leave he longed for the day they would be together openly and that he could her hand in his for all of the world to see.

Had Sybil not excused herself early that evening, she would have realized that the talk about a ball was in fact plans for the servants' ball, which included inviting any number of friends, not least most of the surviving younger male members of their set in the hopes that Edith and Sybil might yet make a match. Sybil did leave, though, so it was left to Edith to deliver the news before breakfast the next morning.

"Sybil, do you have a minute?" Edith asking, closing the door firmly behind her before Sybil had the opportunity to respond. Sybil nodded.

"Last night after dinner Papa announced we shall have the servant's ball again this year. It will be … different than in previous years. Mary has decided she will be in London that weekend and of course Cousin Matthew certainly won't be able to dance. I don't know about Lavinia. And, of course we don't have footmen like we used to."

Sybil sensed that Edith was nervous and this rambling was a way of accommodating her nerves.

"Why that's not so very different, Edith. Is that all?"

Edith looked at the floor, studying the pattern in the carpet.

"No, I'm afraid not. They've decided to invite a few, a few, gentlemen, Sybil, in the hopes that you and I might be settled sooner rather than later."

Sybil blanched and she felt her stomach turn.

"I wanted to tell you this morning before you had a chance to hear the news from anyone else."

"Thank you, Edith. Whatever shall I do?"

"I think, Sybil, that you should behave as though everything were perfectly normal. It's only dancing and it's not like you haven't danced with men before this. You can dance a few turns and perhaps beg off. Or, if mama insists that you stay, make light conversation with each one and no one will think anything of it."

Sybil felt that she might be physically ill, but she knew what Edith said was correct. Unless she was prepared to announce her engagement to Tom Branson before the ball, which she was not, there was nothing else to be done.

"Thank you, Edith."

"I just want to know, Sybil, why did you never tell me yourself? The way you told Mary?"

"I never told Mary. She happened upon us one afternoon and drew her own conclusions."

It was Edith's turn to blanche as she imagined what her younger sister might have been doing with the chauffeur to allow Mary to draw such conclusions. Sybil quickly realized this and laughed.

"It wasn't anything like you're imagining, Edith. We were only having an argument, which Mary recognized for what it was: a lover's quarrel. Not that we were lover's mind you," here she laughed again, "only two people very much in love who hadn't quite figured that out yet."

"I hope you'll be happy, Sybil. Your life will be, well it will be different, but I imagine you already know that."

Sybil nodded.

"Edith, will you do me one favor?"

Edith, so unused to be taken into confidence or asked by anyone to do a favor was eager to oblige.

"Would you tell Tom about the ball? I don't think I could bear to see his face when he learns I'm to dance with all these men."

Thus, Edith found herself in the garage on a late December afternoon. Branson was working on the engine when she entered and he slid out from under the car quickly hearing a woman's footfall.

"It's only me, Branson," Edith said, for although he tried to hide his disappointment, he did not entirely succeed.

"It's nice to see you, Lady Edith, how may I help you?"

She struggled with where to begin and cast her eyes about the garage for a place to sit. They fell on the small table where he'd arranged the Christmas pudding the night before and he gestured for her to sit.

"Branson, Sybil has asked me to speak with you."

His brow furrowed and she fretted that she was getting this wrong, this first favor her sister had trusted her to do, and she began to wring her hands.

"Is anything the matter with Lady Sybil?" he asked worriedly.

"No. And yes. Oh dear, I'm afraid I'm bungling this. Branson, I believe you know that we will hold the servant's ball again this year. It's to be in just a few weeks' time."

He nodded, suddenly feeling sorry for this awkward woman who had neither the cold dignity of her older sister, the warm grace of her younger one, or the beauty of either.

"You see, my parents have decided to change it this year. They've decided to invite … to invite several friends, several young men. They believe it's time Sybil and I were settled and, as the season won't be for many months yet, I believe they're hoping to hasten the process."

He was speechless, but rose from his seat and began pacing.

"I've spoken to Sybil and I think the best thing will be for her to go along with their plans. She's told me of your plan to sail in the spring, and I don't believe it will help either of you for her to create a scene now."

She waited for a response, but hearing none, she continued, her confidence growing.

"Branson, she's asked me to tell you because she couldn't bear to share the news herself."

Here he nodded, grateful at least that nothing was seriously wrong with Sybil. Of course, he would have preferred to hear the news from her, but he could understand how she would struggle to deliver it.

"Thank you, milady. Unfortunately, I believe you are correct. Of course I don't like at all, but I agree that for now the best course of action is to do nothing at all."

After a moment he continued, "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, Branson."

"I understand from Sybil that she had a bit of, uh, information about Lady Mary that she used to ensure her silence. But I don't understand why you have agreed to not give us away. I'm grateful, of course, but I've been wondering…"

She looked embarrassed and was silent for a moment before she responded.

"I had a mind to give her away as we drove to find you. But when I saw the way you looked at one another, I knew I'd never forgive myself if I ruined it."

She dropped her voice and spoke more quietly and more seriously.

"I have seen what it looks like to enter into a loveless marriage, that's Mary of course, fierce and irritable whenever Sir Richard is around, but now I see what it looks like to enter into one based on love. I should only hope that one day I shall be so fortunate as to follow your and Sybil's example."

He was surprised to feel a hard lump in his throat and was forced to swallow twice before he could trust himself to speak.

"Thank you, milady, truly. We're both very grateful and I hope that you shall be lucky when you marry, Lady Edith."

"If you're to be my brother-in-law, Branson, I believe it would quite alright if you called me Edith. Of course, you mightn't let others hear that."

He smiled that the levity had returned to her voice.

"In that case, perhaps you'll call me Tom."

Now it was her turn to smile, for she had always liked him and was pleased to feel that she had her own bond with him now.

"I should be leaving in a moment, Tom, but before I do, is there any message you wish me to carry back to Sybil?"

"Only that I am pleased she has such as sister as yourself to keep her counsel. She is – we both are – very lucky. It lightens my load to know that entire family might not forsake her."

"I don't believe I could do it myself, but if this is the life she wants, then I can but hope the two of you will be happy."

Edith rose from the table then, secure in the knowledge that she had accomplished her task better than even Sybil could have hoped.


	14. Chapter 14

Before Robert suspended it during the war, the servants' ball was usually held in the opening weeks of each new year. This year, however, Cora had determined to push it back by almost a month, well into February, to allow more time to prepare. She knew her plan was unconventional – after all, there would be no one to serve the punch to her guests – but also that war had changed people and circumstances enough that, at least this year, such an unusual invitation would be not only permissible, but welcomed. She had calculated correctly and was delighted that nearly every young man, and many of the women, that she invited accepted.

During these weeks and was Cora busied herself with the preparations for the ball, Mary's anger toward Sybil dissipated. Mary was still displeased that Sybil would break up the family, but as her own unhappy march toward matrimony pressed steadily onward, she found it increasingly difficult to be angry with Sybil for fighting to marry the man she loved. How her own life might be different today, Mary thought more than once, if she was possessed of similar strength of character and single-mindedness. She could not entirely forgive Sybil's little speech as they drove home from the Swan Inn, but she began to appreciate it for what it was: a desperate act from a woman on the verge of being denied her true love. No, Mary did not agree with Sybil's actions, but alone with her thoughts in the quiet of the night, she grudgingly admitted they were admirable.

Seeing Sybil returning to the house one afternoon – undoubtedly she had slipped out to steal an hour or two with Branson, Mary thought – the older sister fairly cornered the younger one.

"Sybil, might I have a word?"

It was phrased as a question, but Sybil understood a command when she heard one.

"I thought perhaps we might take a walk on the grounds. Will you join me?"

Another command. Sybil cast about as though for someone, anyone to save her from whatever her sister might have in store, then reluctantly fell in with Mary.

"You don't need to look so scared. We've argued long enough. I thought perhaps we should be friends again."

Sybil would have like to point out that she had no argument with anyone, that it was they who were arrayed against her, but she knew the harshness of the words she had spoken and so accepted this olive branch graciously.

"Thank you, truly."

"I don't agree with what you're doing and I can still hope that you'll change your mind. But as you're stubborn and unlikely to do so, I thought I should call a truce."

Sybil beamed. "Thank you, Mary. You're right, I _am_ going to marry Tom. And I am sorry for what I said to you. I don't really believe…"

"It's not important and I suppose you were quite right to say it. I would have given you away that night, of course."

They walked silently through the mists, side-by-side but a world away from one another. Each woman's mind swirled with thoughts of their futures and the very different lives they would soon lead.

"I would like you to promise me one thing though. I know I haven't got much right to ask, but before you tell our parents I would like you to tell me first. So that I'll know and I'll be ready."

"I will, Mary, you and Edith both."

"I'm curious Sybil, you had Mr. Pamuk's story to hold me at bay, but what of Edith. Why won't she give you away?"

Sybil shrugged, but Mary bore into her with a look that suggested the topic would not die.

"She doesn't want both of her sisters to end with loveless marriages," Sybil said quietly, afraid of torpedoing the truce before it had lasted five minutes.

Instead of becoming angry, Mary laughed.

"Well she needn't fret about that. Sir Richard and I have plenty of love. Love of money, love of power, love of position. Our union will be far from loveless."

Peals of bitter laughter filled the air.

"But you don't love him," Sybil responded, quietly.

"No, I suppose I don't. But then I can't afford to wait for a man I might love. I've grown old during the war, my story is out there and, face it, Sybil, the one man I've ever truly loved is soon to wed another."

With these last words, Mary's calm bearing melted away and she began to sob, quietly at first and then as a wounded animal might, and as Sybil had on the night she had been taken from the Swan Inn. At first Sybil was too shocked to move, but as she regained her senses she moved toward Mary and drew her into her arms as their mother had done for them when they were small. She longed to offer words of comfort, but nothing came to her and, even had anything come, Sybil knew it would be inadequate to hold the waves of sorrow at bay.

Finally, after many minutes had passed, Mary drew a deep breath, withdrew a handerkerchief, and recomposed herself.

"Let's speak of me no further, darling. Let's speak of you instead, and of what you will do at the ball Mama has planned to reintroduce you to society. I trust you'll not show up with Branson on your arm."

Sybil chewed her lip nervously. "Of course I'll not show up with Branson, with Tom, on my arm, but the truth is that I haven't quite decided what to do. I'll not be running off to London, though; she wouldn't like that."

"She doesn't like that _I'm_ running off to London either, but as I'm already engaged and the whole point is to settle you and Edith, she couldn't put up too great a fight."

"Edith thinks I should go and behave normally. Dance a few turns and then excuse myself."

"Mama will never allow that, but she could hardly object if you danced with Mr. Carson, or even Thomas. Mind that you don't dance all night with Branson, of course, or your secret will be all over London almost before the guests have even left."

"I don't expect it will be a secret too much longer."

"No, I suppose not." Mary sighed. "And will Brans, will Tom, attend the ball that is to serve as his fiancée's reintroduction to the remaining eligible men of the aristocracy?"

"It's not quite settled, but I believe so, yes."

In fact, it was very settled, but only as of yesterday morning. After listening to her fret about the blasted ball for the better part of two weeks – perhaps she could take ill or he could take ill, or, or, or – Tom had finally decreed that they would both attend.

"Short of needing a hospital, your mother will not see you miss her ball, Sybil. You will attend and so will I."

She had tried to argue then, how she didn't want to dance with other men, or how difficult it would be for him to watch her dance with one man after another who had designs on her future.

"It won't be any harder than the years I spent not knowing who you were dancing with, wondering if you might return one weekend engaged, or wondering how I would face the morning with any hope that you loved me gone, I can tell you that."

Sybil could raise no argument to that.

As the ball drew closer, Cora became increasingly agitated that everything should be just so. Among her various decisions was that Edith and Sybil were to have new frocks. There should be nothing too elaborate, of course, and she would oversee their attire herself this time; there would be no repeat of the harem pants fiasco. This decision made, she organized a trip into town for following morning. The fabrics in the shop were rather limited, but the dressmaker did have a few new patterns and had even begun to dabble in the ready-to-wear styles that were emerging on the continent. In fact, while she had nothing at hand for Edith did have two frocks that fit Sybil perfectly and in the half-mourning colors Cora preferred for that first ball.

Sybil tried them both, repeatedly, but the women could not decide between them. There was a day, Sybil thought, when her mother would simply have purchased both frocks, and in fact she was somewhat surprised that she didn't. Perhaps she still felt the need for wartime restraint, or maybe it was the simple fact Cora hoped society women would be in full color by the time of the next proper season. Sybil professed to like both dresses, Edith preferred the first, and Cora the second. After she had tried each of them for a third time, Edith spoke.

"Perhaps we need a man's opinion. It's too bad we don't have a man to say which he prefers."

To the surprise of both sisters, their mother seized on this.

"Why Edith, you're absolutely correct! Fetch Branson and tell him he's needed to once to offer his opinion on which frock Lady Sybil will wear for the servant's ball."

Had she not been so relieved to have a solution, any solution, to the interminable fittings, Cora might have seen the look her daughters exchanged. She did not, however, and a moment later Branson appeared with Edith. She had told him hurriedly that he was to select Sybil's frock for the ball and seeing his eyes widen and a grin spread across his face, Edith said, "I see I was right to tell you the circumstances outside the shop. You'll give yourself away if you enter with a grin like that!"

It was with his most serious expression that he entered the shop and in an even voice that conveyed none of the emotions churning inside him intoned, "Lady Edith said my opinion is needed on a frock, your ladyship. I'm not much with frocks, of course."

"It's quite simple, Branson. Lady Sybil will try first one and then the other. After you've seen both, you're simply to say which you prefer."

He found it very odd that the three women – and the dressmaker who stood to one side – needed him in order to accomplish this simple task. But, his newspaper long since read and the opportunity at hand to publicly assess the normally off-limits Sybil in public, he readily accepted.

Sybil happily modeled both frocks for him and he restrained himself from commenting that they were remarkably similar and that it couldn't possibly matter which one they selected. The dresses fitted her beautifully, another fact that he kept to himself.

"Your ladyship, I prefer the first one," he said, directing him comments to Cora. He did not trust himself to speak to Sybil without giving them both away and Lady Grantham was the next logical choice.

Edith was delighted that he liked the same frock she had preferred and as the three women climbed into the car for the ride back to Downton she hesitated.

Once she was certain her mother would not scold her for dawdling she said quietly, "I preferred that one as well, _Tom,_" then quickly took her place in the car.

He winked at her and smiled, again pleased that Sybil was not entirely alone as she prepared to marry him.

The day before the ball Mary left for London.

"I'm counting on a full report when I return, Sybil," she said rather sternly.

"I'm sorry you'll not be here, Mary."

"In a way, so am I, but this is better."

It was better Sybil knew, in no small part because Matthew and Lavinia had announced only days earlier that they would attend. Matthew could not dance, of course, but the future Earl and Countess would be on hand to enliven the atmosphere and converse with the staff at the home that would one day be theirs.

Sybil rarely asked Anna to help her dress or style her hair these days, but as the hours ticked by and her hands grew increasingly unsteady, she asked if Anna might assist her.

"Milady, you're nervous!"

"I am, Anna, and I really must settle down. I won't even be able to walk down the stairs!"

"You've nothing to worry about. Remember, you can always join Mr. Bates and me in conversation if you need a few moments' escape."

Sybil knew that Anna would not dance much, not with Mr. Bates's condition, but it was a relief to know that the two of them would be there with a smile and a word of encouragement for her. Edith had made a similar offer, although Sybil hoped her sister would be spend the evening in conversation with their suitors. Poor Edith, Sybil thought. First her older sister created a scandal with Mr. Pamuk and now her younger sister would create an even larger one by running off with the chauffeur. Mr. Pamuk had been a foreigner and what happened was, well, scandalous, but at least he had been a wealthy and dashing diplomat and not an Irish servant.

As Anna smoothed the last of Sybil's hair into place, Edith knocked at the door.

"It's time to go downstairs. Are you ready, Sybil?"

She wasn't, but she also had no choice. Reluctantly she left her room and joined the receiving line. As a concession to the fact that this _was _the servants' ball, each servant passed through the line first, shaking hands or exchanging a few kind words with members of the family, followed by the guests. Such an arrangement had the effect of appearing to offer first respects to the staff, while actually dispensing with that duty first and allowing plenty of time for the guests to linger and exchange more than simple pleasantries with their hosts.

Finally the ball opened and Cora whirled by with Mr. Carson while Robert led Mrs. Hughes in a more demure turn about the floor. Immediately, Sybil was deluged with requests by the young men who had traveled to Downton principally to court her. Sure, one or two of them might consider a spin across the floor with Edith – she was the daughter of a grand family and would be settled with a fair dowry, no doubt – but Lady Sybil was the prize. With great presence of mind, she would allow no man more than one turn on her dance card, carefully alternating between the sons of the aristocracy and the servants.

"I didn't expect to dance with you, Nurse Crawley, and certainly not twice" Thomas had said, truly surprised when she approached him for a second time that evening. She was a fine nurse and he had grown to appreciate, if not entirely like, her during their years working under Dr. Clarkson.

"It's my honor, Sergeant Barrow," she laughed, before dancing off.

Thomas wasn't the only one surprised and soon it was her mother who had her ear.

"Sybil, darling, I fear you're being terribly rude to our guests. Please, dear, let's not dance anymore with the servants this evening and dance instead with the other young men."

Sybil did as she was instructed, dancing now with the men her mother invited. To each one she told the same story: she had been a nurse during the war, she loved her work, and she planned to continue even now that the war had ended. Working as a nurse had been acceptable – just – while the war was on, but certainly no well-bred man could contemplate a wife who worked now that peace reigned. Slowly they began to distance themselves from her, whispering amongst themselves at Lady Sybil's strange ideas.

Sybil was speaking with Anna and Mr. Bates when her mother approached, anger etched into her face.

"Lady Sybil! One of these young men just approached me to ask if it was true that you intend to continue working as a nurse even after the war is over! I assured him there's no truth to that, but whatever would possess you to say such a thing?"

Sybil raised her chin and met her mother's gaze. "It is true, mama, I do intend to work as a nurse."

Daisy and Mr. Carson had finished a dance and stilled to watch the unfolding scene, as did Mrs. Hughes and Tom.

"I will not entertain this conversation, Sybil, I simply won't."

"Well. I intend to work as a nurse and I will."

The music ended as Sybil spoke these last words and while they were quiet enough that the guests at the far side of the hall did not hear, most everyone else did. A hush descended over the hall.

The music started again quickly and, few options at hand, Sybil requested Mr. Carson share the dance with her. His expression was only slightly less angry than her mother's, but she would not be cowed into silence. While once she had hoped to retreat early, now she intended to be the last one on her feet. She could feel two dozen pairs of eyes upon her and Mr. Carson, but she danced now as though she were in the midst of the finest Mayfair ballroom. Slowly others followed her lead, the floor filling again with dancers, including Anna and Tom. Eager to no longer be the focal point for the entire room, Mr. Carson tapped the chauffeur's shoulder and asked if he might cut in. As Mr. Carson and Anna waltzed toward the opposite side of the room and Tom led her toward the other, Sybil felt a lightness she had not known in many months. She wished the music would continue forever, but it could not.

"Thank you, milady," Tom said with a bow, lightly kissing the back of her hand as they parted.

At that moment she would have liked nothing better than wrap her arms about his neck and kiss him before the entire assemblage. 'At least Lady Mary's scandal had been committed privately,' she could hear the guests saying as they left. The sound of these imaginary voices filled her head and she laughed, not caring who heard her delight.


	15. Chapter 15

Sybil might have known that it would be her grandmother and not her mother to whom she would ultimately answer for her behavior at the ball. Yet when several days had passed without further reprimand, she began to believe she might be in the clear. And then the summons arrived: she was to have tea with her grandmother, alone. The only saving grace, she thought, as her mother delivered the news, was that at least she would ride to the Dowager House with Tom.

The night before tea, Sybil paid a visit to the garage, slipping past Mrs. Hughes in an act of rather bold defiance. In the weeks since Mary and Edith had swooped into the Swan Inn, it had become harder to hide her intentions and plans. It was not, therefore, overconfidence that allowed Sybil to pass by the housekeeper without so much as a second glance, as it was a lack of concern. Where once she might have denied everything, now she would almost welcome the opportunity to admit her relationship with Tom.

Tom looked up upon hearing the garage door and smiled.

"I received a letter from my mother, Sybil."

"Is it good news?"

"I think you should read it," he said, holding the letter toward her.

_Dear Tom:_

_You are correct that your news comes as quite a shock and I cannot say that I understand. I believe you when you write that Lady Sybil loves you as you love her, but it is my stronger belief that you are both young and very foolish. You will face many obstacles, no small reason that these things are not done. I assume from what you did not say that her family will not accept you. Your welcome here will not be much warmer, but I will open my home and heart to her as best I can. I hope you are both prepared to meet the challenges before you. I have shared that you will sail for Ireland this spring with an English bride. I have told no one that she is a lady. _

_Your loving mam_

Sybil read it twice. Folding it carefully into the envelope, she noticed her hand was shaking.

"So that's what she think, is it?"

She moved toward him and allowed him to wrap her into his arms. They stood that way for a moment before he looked down and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"It could have been worse, Sybil. As it is, you'll be able to live with her while the banns are read."

"I hoped she might have been happier for us. I, I don't know what I expected, I suppose. I see that I shall be almost no better accepted in Ireland than you would be here."

Tom sighed. This was not the letter he had wished for, but it was the one he expected.

"When shall we sail, Sybil?"

"Either as soon as you receive an offer or the first week in April."

"So tomorrow or a month from tomorrow?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

"Yes. I'll tell my family as soon as you have news of a job or in late March. Before I face their wrath over our marriage, though, I must first face my grandmother at tea tomorrow. She's quite displeased with my behavior at the ball. Undoubtedly that means she's had a letter from some dreadful friend or cousin denouncing me. Has Anna asked you to drive me tomorrow?"

"She has, yes."

"Good night, Tom. Oh, before I forget, Mrs. Hughes spotted me on my way to the garage. I'm afraid you may get a good tongue lashing tomorrow. I believe she, too, is quite displeased with me."

On both of these accounts Sybil was correct. Mrs. Hughes had not hesitated to reprimand him, issuing a curt, "Mr. Branson, I would like to speak with you in my office, please" as soon as he appeared at breakfast.

With the door closed she had delivered a lecture to remember.

"There are rules, Mr. Branson. For some time you had Lady Sybil have chosen to flaunt these rules as though they applied to all but you. Such behavior cannot be allowed to continue. What would we come to if the entire world ceased to maintain their proper place? It is not appropriate and I shall be forced to report you to Mr. Carson the next time I witness such a flagrant disrespect for your position."

"With all respect, Mrs. Hughes," Tom replied, "I believe the improper behavior you speak of was on the part of Lady Sybil and not myself. Shall I bar the door to the garage that none but myself should enter?"

It was a daring and risky thing to say, something that might certainly be classified as "flagrant disrespect," but he could not help himself. After all, he _had_ been in the garage last night; her argument was with Sybil and not with him.

"Mr. Branson, if you're not careful, his lordship will bar the garage himself, and you'll not be inside of it when he does it."

He opened his mouth to speak, and then decided against it. The glint in his eye, the hesitation, the very way he stood before her told Mrs. Hughes everything she needed to know. He would be leaving, no doubt with Lady Sybil. She wouldn't have been able to say, if asked, how she divined this, but she knew it as certainly as she knew trouble was brewing between the chauffeur and Lady Sybil on the eve of the war. She wished she could go backwards and deal with them more firmly those years ago.

The opportunity was long past, however, so she simply dropped both her eyes and her voice and said gently, "I have liked you very much, Mr. Branson. I shall be sorry when you leave."

The drive to the Dowager House was a short one, just long enough for Tom to relay to Sybil his conversation with Mrs. Hughes.

"You really must be more careful, Sybil," he scolded her, perhaps more harshly than he intended.

"What would you have me do? Shall I simply never see you until the time comes to leave for Dublin?"

The only aspect of the afternoon she had been looking forward to was her time with Tom and now he had scolded her, too. They rode the rest of the distance in a stony silence. She was in a fine humor, then, by the time she stood before her grandmother for tea.

"There's no need to look so angry yet, my dear, you haven't even heard my proposal."

Proposal? Sybil expected a good tongue lashing but not any sort of proposal. Sybil raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth.

"No. Sit down, Sybil, and let me speak."

Wearily, Sybil did as instructed.

"Now, I don't know what they taught you at that nursing college, but ever since Cousin Isobel put it in your head to become a nurse…"

"Cousin Isobel didn't put anything in my head, granny!"

"There's no need to be defensive, Sybil. As I was saying, ever since Cousin Isobel put it in your head to become a nurse, you've had nothing but fanciful ideas. You suggested, if I recall, that if it were up to you, we might have even received enlisted men to convalesce at Downton Abbey. Imagine! We all thought the war was responsible for these strange notions of yours, Sybil, dear, but we see now that we were mistaken."

Sybil began to protest, but was silenced by the hammering of her grandmother's cane against the carpet.

"You have spoken quite enough, Sybil. Now you will listen. When your mother told me that you spoke at the ball of continuing to work as a nurse, I thought she misheard. But now I've received letters, Sybil, not one but several from acquaintances who have also heard that you said you intend to work as a nurse. Now, dear, the last time I received such dreadful correspondence was when Mary…well, we needn't discuss that again. At the time I assumed such rumors were entirely unfounded, but of course they weren't. This time I have no doubt: of course you spoke such preposterous words. One scandal in the family is quite enough. Now, dear, you can't believe that I will allow you to create a second. I've spoken with your parents and we have decided the best thing to do will be for you to go to London. You can stay with your Aunt Rosamund and meet all the best people. There will be no time for nursing or that dreadful canvassing you practiced before the war. You will behave as a society lady and you will return with at least one proposal of marriage."

Sybil was overwhelmed by everything she had heard. London? Marriage proposals? Oh dear God, she thought, I should have simply followed Edith's advice and danced with those dull men and sent them on their way.

"And am I to leave for London tomorrow, granny?"

"Don't be dramatic, Sybil dear. There's no need to hurry. You can leave in a month. You'll be more likely to find a husband in a summer dress than a winter one."

Sybil nodded and absently sipped her tea. One month.

Tom pulled a grim face when she told him of her grandmother's "proposal" on the return drive to Downton.

"I'll write my mother that we'll arrive within the month. Shall I post my response directly or would you like to include a letter of introduction?"

"I think I should write her, Tom, don't you?"

He nodded. His mother thought them young and foolish; it would be all the better if she did not add discourteous to that list as well.

Unlike the letter Sybil struggled to write her own family, this one came more easily,

_Dear Mrs. Branson,_

_Tom has told me much about you over the years and I look forward to at last making your acquaintance when we will finally meet next month. I have loved Tom for many years and we look forward to being married as soon as practical after our arrival in Dublin. Until that is possible, I am grateful to know that I may depend upon your hospitality. I worked as a nurse during the war and hope to obtain a position as a nurse shortly after arriving. I will strive to make myself useful and not to be a burden upon you._

_Sybil Crawley_

As she finished the letter she heard a light knock at her door and Mary appeared.

"Did you have a nice afternoon with granny, Sybil?"

"Mary, it was awful. They'll all agreed that I'm to leave for London within the month!"

"I can't imagine what you were thinking telling anyone who would listen that you planned to work as a nurse, Sybil."

"Only that I'm tired of everyone thinking a young woman is merely an ornament, like a pretty trinket you might set upon a shelf. We can have other dreams."

"That's simply not how the world is, Sybil."

"Then we must make is so."

"There will be a lot of powerful men against you, but nothing I can say about this or anything else will change your mind once it is set. So I'll simply wish you best luck in building this new world. Now, will you be joining us for dinner this evening?"

Sybil nodded.

"In that case, I'll send Anna to help you change. I don't know how the people in your fantasyland dress, but here we still dress for dinner."

Sybil had been so intent on writing her letter to Mrs. Branson that she did not hear the dinner gong. As she readied for dinner, so much physically a part of this old world, she allowed her mind to focus on the new world she hoped to find – or create – in Ireland.

"I'll never dress for dinner again, Anna, once Tom and I have left here."

"Never say never, milady; it's a strange world and you can't know that future will hold."

The immediate future at least held more of the same as Sybil went through the motions in one life while preparing for the next. Had the rest of the family not been preoccupied with the preparations for the Matthew and Lavinia's wedding, and directed what time and attention remained toward Mary's wedding to Sir Richard later that summer, they may have noticed that Sybil was increasingly disengaged from conversations, from them, and from life. Sybil did her best to require the car for any number of reasons or to find an excuse to visit the grounds, but whenever a day did pass that Sybil was unable to speak with or even see Tom, it only furthered her resolve that the only life she wanted was one with him.

March passed without further word from Dublin and as April dawned Sybil prepared to tell her family that she was leaving for Ireland with no prospects. And then it happened: a letter arrived bearing the offer of a job for Tom at one of Dublin's most esteemed papers. He told her as they drove to town and she clapped excitedly before throwing her arms around his neck from behind him.

"Careful, milady, or you'll send us off the road," he said cheerily, regaining control of the car and stealing a look over his shoulder.

"We'll tell them tonight, Tom. It's only a week until Matthew's wedding, so we'll stay until then and sail for Dublin a day later. When are you to begin?"

"I'm to start as soon as possible and no later than the first of May."

He paused.

"Did you say _we _will tell them tonight?"

"Of course. I don't think I could face them without you and also they need to see we're in this together. You can come to the drawing room after dinner."

He had not planned for this. Perhaps it was terribly unfair to Sybil, but he had thought she would tell them one evening and then he'd manage to slip away without so much as a sideways look at his lordship. After all, the last time they tried this she'd left only a note.

Receiving no response, Sybil inquired, "You don't mind, do you, that we should tell them together?"

"I have to admit it's a bit of shock, Sybil. I figured you would tell them yourself and then we'd be on our way. But if you'd like me by your side, then that's where you'll find me."

"Yes, please. But I'll do most of the talking. You won't have to say anything, just give me a bit of courage if I need it."

"And after we tell them, what then?"

"What do you mean what then?"

"Sybil, I'm certain no matter what else transpires this evening, I will no longer be in your father's employ come tomorrow. Yet, you've said you don't wish to sail for another week."

"I hadn't given much thought to that, honestly. I suppose you could take a room at the Grantham Arms."

She dispatched with her errands quickly; they were not much and had mostly been an excuse to use the car and see Tom. As they returned to the house, they settled the last details of time and place. As he helped her from the car he held her hand in his slightly longer than necessary, and was surprised to hear Mr. Carson's deep baritone call toward them.

"Lady Sybil, is everything quite alright or do you need further assistance?"

It was time for him to return to the garage and once more to pack all of his worldly possessions into trunks, sweep the floors, and give a last shine to the cars he had tended so beautifully for the past six years.

As he completed these tasks, Sybil called together her sisters, for whom there could be no doubt of the meaning of this summons. With Anna rounding out the quartet, Sybil gave them advance notice, as she promised Mary she would, of the bombshell she would drop in just a few hours' time. Unsurprisingly they made one last attempt to convince her otherwise, but when that failed they filed toward dinner wearing the grim expressions of a man on his way to the gallows. As Sybil pulled her bedroom door closed behind her, Anna reached for her arm.

"I think you're very brave, milady. Good luck."

Returning to the servants' hall, she sought Mrs. Hughes.

"Mrs. Hughes, Lady Mary requested I order the car for her tonight. She says she'll need it early tomorrow."

"Very well, Anna. While you're at the garage, please ask Mr. Branson whether he will be joining us for dinner tonight."

"I don't believe so, Mrs. Hughes, but I'll ask."

Anna turned and walked through the door before she could see the quizzical look upon Mrs. Hughes's face. The housekeeper found it strange that Anna should have any idea what Mr. Branson planned for dinner; perhaps she would ask about this later.

"Mr. Branson, are you here?"

"I am, Anna. How can I help you?"

"I thought you could use some company. The hours must seem very long."

"Aye, you've that right. So she's told you then?"

"Yes, and Lady Mary and Lady Edith, as well. She said you're to come to the drawing room after dinner. She did tell you how to find the drawing room, I hope."

"Yes, it's just here." He pulled from his pocket a small piece of paper where Sybil's neat hand had written directions to the room.

Anna nodded. "Yes, she's done that very well for you."

"I'm going to miss you, Mr. Branson. You've been a very good friend to me as long as you've worked here."

"Thank you, Anna. I'll miss the staff…well, most of the staff. I hope one day people will forgive us."

"I shouldn't count on Thomas or O'Brien for that, but I imagine the rest will come around, even Mr. Carson eventually. Mr. Bates and I think very highly of you and Sybil. We wanted you to know that."

They sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on the vagaries of a life in service, and of life generally.

"I should be going now, Mr. Branson. Mrs. Hughes will wonder what's happened to me. Will you be alright this evening?"

He laughed. "I suppose that depends on whether his lordship kills me in the drawing room within the next hour."

"Good luck, Mr. Branson."

Anna returned to the hall for what she knew would be a very long night. Not only did she imagine that their dinner would be late while Mr. Carson witnessed the carnage – literal or figurative – in the drawing room, but she knew she would be lucky to swallow a few mouthfuls of her own meal before Lady Sybil – or Lady Mary, or both – rang for her. She picked up her mending, but abandoned it quickly. The clock sounded and Anna said a quick prayer, not for Lady Sybil or Mr. Branson or even Lady Mary, but for all of them. Whatever she thought of the world and its rules, she knew that by the time the chimes were quiet the world upstairs would be a changed place.


	16. Chapter 16

Anna had been unable to meet Mr. Carson's gaze when he entered the room, barely acknowledging him with a meek nod. Only she and Mr. Bates knew the reasons behind the thundercloud expression that the butler wore into dinner that night. Daisy began to speak once, but a single look from Mrs. Patmore, who had never known Mr. Carson to be possessed of such rage, shushed her and the meal passed in stony silence. Even Thomas had the good sense not to inquire after the ruckus upstairs, for one and all understood that whatever had happened, their butler was in no mood to revisit it over his dinner. Nearly everyone jumped when Lady Mary rang, except Anna who had been expecting just such a summons.

As she rose from the table, Carson addressed her, "She told you then."

"Yes, Mr. Carson, before dinner."

"Very well. Go and attend to Lady Mary."

Anna did so, listening as Lady Mary shared the worst of the evening with her. Sybil's announcement had gone no better than any of them had expected, but the worst of it, from Mary's perspective, had come after her sister and the chauffeur took their leave.

"You call yourself a daughter?" Robert had raged.

"Edith knew as well, didn't you Edith?"

Edith nodded timidly, but their father had been unappeased.

"As the oldest daughter, Mary, you have a responsibility to prevent these things happening. And when you cannot prevent them, you must report them. How long have you? HOW LONG?"

"Only a couple of months," Mary lied.

"For two months you have known this and told no one. I can't believe this. One daughter running off with a chauffeur and another one – or both – as her accomplice. I can't decide which is more surprising. And to think your mother and grandmother wanted me to fight the entail for your benefit. If you weren't already leaving Downton this summer, I would have a mind to throw you out."

He had stormed from the room them, leaving behind a trail of open mouths from Lavinia to Carson. Mary had attempted to defend herself before her mother and grandmother, but they were no keener to listen than her father had been.

"I am very disappointed in you, Mary. Very," Cora managed before excusing herself.

The others had followed quickly behind and Mary and Edith retreated to their rooms. What galled Mary the most was that he _was_ right, he was, and she had no excuse for why she hadn't spoken out. True, these past two months she had been silenced by Sybil's threat to reveal all about Mr. Pamuk, but what if she had approached her father instead of Sybil the day she found them arguing by the garage? Her anger continued to grow. She was angry with Branson above all, but she had no small amount of anger for Sybil, or for Edith who simply sat there while their father placed the blame on her. And how dare he? She was mad at her father, too.

Above all, she was angry that Sybil dared to chuck it all and lead the life she wanted when she, Mary, had paid desperately for her one misstep. There it was. The deepest anger, she realized, was directed at herself for agreeing to marry that insipid Sir Richard Carlisle and for lacking her sister's courage to live life on her own terms. That realization was as though the sun parted the clouds and she gasped at the clarity of her thoughts.

"It will be alright, milady. I'm sure he didn't mean it." Anna was still comforting her over the words of her father, but Mary had moved into far more dangerous territory.

"No, Anna, no, it won't be alright. It will never be alright because I'm to marry the dreadful Sir Richard and there's nothing to be done to change that."

There was little Anna could say or do once she realized the new direction her mistress's thought had taken so she did as she had done so many times before in the midst of Lady Mary's crises: she stood behind her and placed both hands on Lady Mary's quietly heaving shoulders and simply watched as the tears and the heartaches traced silvery tracks the length of her ladyship's cheeks.

Dinner ended earlier than usual in the servants hall, with most of the staff retreating to the quiet – and safety – of their rooms.

"What do you suppose was the shouting?" Daisy asked Mrs. Patmore as they cleared away the last of the meal.

"I shouldn't like to guess, and I shouldn't like Mr. Carson to hear me trying to guess," Mrs. Patmore responded. "If we need to know, we'll know soon enough."

Some would know sooner than others, though, and as Mrs. Patmore and Daisy set to work on the next day's bread, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes sat down with a cup of wine in his sitting room.

"Was it really so bad as that, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked to break the ice.

"It was worse than that, Mrs. Hughes. I can hardly bring myself to speak of it."

They sat quietly for a moment before she continued. "His lordship could be heard shouting from the servants' hall. I imagined it must be something terrible."

"Mrs. Hughes, would you believe it if I told you that Lady Sybil summoned Mr. Branson to the drawing room to announce to everyone present that she intends to leave Downton and to marry him? Think of it! Lady Sybil married to a chauffeur."

"It is rather unusual."

"Unusual? Unusual? Do you hear yourself? It's not unusual. It's preposterous. It's unimaginable. Why these things simply are not done. "

"Do you think she cares for him?"

"Well I should say so, not that I think that matters. She is a lady. I'm afraid perhaps they were too soft with her, being their last and all."

"Would you have preferred her to be like Lady Mary, distant, unhappy, and dragging a dark secret on a chain about her neck until it's enough to kill her?"

"I should have preferred Lady Sybil to marry a gentleman, Mrs. Hughes. That is all."

"Well I'll grant you that it is most irregular, but Mr. Branson is a nice lad. I'll miss him when he's gone. You did dismiss him, I assume?"

"It was hardly necessary. He's lucky he escaped the drawing room with his life."

That sat quietly another moment, Mr. Carson contemplating how such a scandal could have befallen his beloved Downton Abbey.

"What I can't understand, Mrs. Hughes, is how no one knew. You would think someone would have to know."

"Perhaps there were those who had their suspicions but didn't want to say anything. And then it was too late."

Mr. Carson nearly choked on his wine.

"Mrs. Hughes, are you implying that anyone on my staff may have believed Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson were conducting an inappropriate relationship and said nothing of it?"

"I am saying, Mr. Carson, that life is full of surprises. Just look at poor Ethel."

"Yes, I dare say Anna must have known. I shall ask her tomorrow and if that's true then I shall dismiss her in the morning."

"And break Lady Mary's heart a second time? I think not. No, you'll do no such thing. And you'll have to dismiss me before you dismiss Anna."

"_Mrs. Hughes. _Do you mean to tell me you suspected Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson yet said nothing to his lordship or myself? You should think before you respond. His lordship is liable to dismiss you as well in that case."

"All I will say, Mr. Carson, is that I have eyes and ears like anyone. For some that is enough."

She hated to upset him but really, he must stop going about life with these blinders on.

"I apologize, Mr. Carson. This has been a difficult evening. Perhaps you'll feel better in the morning. Good night."

From the drawing room, Tom and Sybil had fled outdoors where they had roamed the gardens and grounds aimlessly, for once saying very little. Each one's mind alternately raced and stalled, reliving the confrontation in the drawing room and thinking of what lay ahead. Tom was seized by one thought, which whirled and twisted through his mind until it had forced out any other thought that tried to enter: how could he have ever doubted that Sybil Crawley loved him?

Now the hour had grown late and the early spring air had more than a hint of chill to it.

"Will you be alright tonight, Tom?" she asked as they prepared to part.

"I imagine I'll sleep better than his lordship."

"And tomorrow?"

"I'll hand in my notice at breakfast and take a room at the Grantham Arms first thing."

"In that case, I imagine the entire village will know before luncheon."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all. It was so tiresome to keep such a secret all this time. Why I imagine I'll sleep more soundly than I have in ages."

"I hope you do. Good night, milady."

He bent forward and kissed her.

"I'll wait for you at the Grantham Arms. Come when you're able."

"Good night, Tom."

He returned for the last time to his small cottage. He lay in the bed, but sleep would not come. He was haunted that night by visions of the past six years as the last years of his life slowly replayed themselves in this mind. The last image, the one that was frozen in his mind, was the way she had looked at him in the drawing room. He had almost pinched himself at that moment, as confirmation that this was his life and not a dream.

The house was entirely silent when she entered, which was perhaps more frightening than if they had been waiting for her, tempers flaring and fingers pointing. Nevertheless, it was as she had hoped it would be and she slept more soundly than she had in many months. When at last she awoke, the clear, strong rays of an April sun streamed through her windows. She considered dressing for breakfast, but decided she could not face them again, not this early. The next fight would come soon enough and she wished to conserve her strength. Hesitantly at first, then stronger, she pulled the cord for Anna.

"Well if it isn't a chauffeur's wife ringing for the help," Thomas said under his breath, then stopped when he measured the depth of Mr. Carson's anger in his eyes.

"THOMAS! I said silence," Mr. Carson boomed

"Let me prepare a tray for you, Anna," Thomas said instead, eager to excuse himself from Carson.

A moment later the maid appeared at Sybil's door bearing a breakfast tray.

"He's left, milady."

Sybil nodded.

"He told me he would give notice at breakfast this morning. Was Mr. Carson very angry?"

However Mr. Carson had thought the staff might learn of last night's crisis, he had never imagined that Mr. Branson might appear in the servants' hall bearing word of this treason himself. It had been lucky for Anna that Mr. Carson hadn't overheard her offering regrets that the evening had been so difficult for him; Mr. Carson was quite certain it hadn't been difficult enough.

Once the chauffeur left the hall and Mr. Carson had decreed silence as the order of the day, half a dozen pairs of eyes had turned toward Anna, who nodded curtly to acknowledge that, yes, in fact, what Mr. Branson said was true. The truth be told, Sybil's breakfast bell had been a relief, for Anna knew as soon as she returned to the hall the same sets of eyes would be upon her rimmed with unasked questions.

"Mr. Carson is very angry, Lady Sybil."

"I fear he may be as angry as papa."

"Lady Mary told me about his lordship, milady."

"He was rather dreadful, Anna. But I suppose no more than I expected."

"It may not be my place to say, Lady Sybil, but I think perhaps you should have a word with Lady Mary. His lordship was especially angry with her after you left."

Sybil did not have a word with Mary, however, but instead dressed for a walk to town. Officially her purpose was to see Dr. Clarkson in the hopes that he might provide her with a letter attesting to her skill as a nurse at his hospital. Unofficially, she wanted to test whether, in fact, the entire village was aware of the scandal she had caused and also to see Cousin Isobel. Undoubtedly, Matthew and Lavinia had informed her of the scene in the drawing room but Sybil felt Isobel also ought to hear from her directly.

Dr. Clarkson had been none too eager to proffer the letter Sybil requested but eventually he agreed, revealing that he, at least, knew of her plans as he did so.

"I am not keen to provide you with the letter you require, Nurse Crawley, but as I imagine some Dublin hospital will be desperate enough to hire you with or without my testimonial, I see nothing to gain in withholding it."

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson."

"Good day, Nurse Crawley."

From the hospital it was only a short walk to Cousin Isobel's, where Mr. Molesley was also clearly enlightened as to the circumstances of her visit.

"Mrs. Crawley will be glad to see you, Lady Sybil. She's been fretting over you all morning."

He showed her into the drawing room.

"Lady Sybil! It's a fine surprise to see you this morning."

"Thank you, Cousin Isobel. I've come…well, I imagine you know why I've come."

"Matthew and Lavinia told me your news when they returned last night. I imagine I'll be the first to offer congratulations."

"Thank you, Isobel. You are the first, and quite probably the last!"

"Do you really believe so, my dear?"

"I am afraid the answer is yes. But this is what I want in my life and I shall not be deterred."

"And what of life after you're married?"

Over a cup of tea, Sybil shared her plans with Cousin Isobel. If the older woman wasn't entirely enthusiastic, it was owing to her concern for Sybil moving to a place where fighting was imminent and with a husband whose new profession would put him in the line of danger, and not any hesitation that the daughter of an earl should marry a chauffeur.

"I must be on my way, Isobel. Will you join us for dinner this evening?"

"Yes, thank you. Matthew and Lavinia will also dine at Downton tonight, I believe. Is that alright?"

"I shall be grateful for any friendly face around the table!" Sybil laughed as she said this and Isobel was reminded, not for the first time, why she liked this spirited young woman so much.

Sybil hurried home, bursting through the back doors and bounding toward her room with an eye to speaking to Mary. It was not to be, for as she opened the door to her bedroom, she found her father. He was gazing out the window, but at the sound of the door he turned on his heels to face her.

"Lady Sybil, might I have a word?"

So this would be round two.


	17. Chapter 17

The argument did not go as Robert had hoped; in the end it was as Edith said and, whatever tears may have been shed, none fell from Sybil's eyes. Cora, pale and exhausted, pleaded with him not to revisit the subject over dinner and generally he'd behaved but now, pacing in his room as O'Brien tended to Cora down the hall, he could not stop the waves of anger washing over him. Why it was even worse this evening than last. Edith and Mary had not only known that their younger sister was conducting an illicit relationship with the chauffeur, but they'd even known she planned to marry him. Marry him! My god, he could hardly stand to think of it. And then, just when he was certain the entire situation couldn't get any worse, Isobel Crawley had spoken up in Sybil's defense. Perhaps his mother had been right at the beginning to hold her at such arm's length. True, Matthew had quieted her, but the damage was done: everyone knew she would be an ally for Sybil.

Robert Crawley was a man of means and a man of action. He certainly did not intend to stand by and allow his family to be dragged into a scandal of such magnitude without a greater fight. He had attempted to threaten, persuade, and cajole his daughter. Failing that, he decided, he would simply buy his way out of this. Tom Branson was a poor chauffeur who longed to return to Ireland. Those were the facts and Robert had no doubt that with enough pounds in his pocket, this Mr. Branson could begin a new life in Ireland with nary another thought to Downton Abbey. He would see to that tomorrow.

The Robert Crawley who returned from the Grantham Arms was a shadow of the man who strode from his front door only a short while earlier. He had been certain, _certain,_ as he made his way purposefully toward the small inn, that he could persuade Branson to see reason and, if that failed, that he could simply buy the man's acquiescence. Yet, not only had neither of these endeavors succeeded, but the chauffeur had called his bluff when Robert demanded he leave the village. For as much as it pained Robert to admit the fact, there could be no doubt that Sybil would have left that afternoon if he had banished the wretched man from town.

And then, no sooner had he crossed the threshold of his home than Isobel Crawley, whom he held personally responsibility for Sybil's descent into a decidedly middle-class worldview, was rushing at him with news that Cora was far worse than she had been when he left. Funny, he did not equate the words "not at all well" with "near to dying" and yet one look at her and any fool could see that his beloved Cora was half dead. His chest tightened as he pictured a life without her. No, it could not be. She must live. She must.

As the space around her buzzed with activity – wedding preparations, nursing duties, tea with the awful Mr. Bryant – Mary felt herself strangely detached from it all. She harbored great resentment toward Branson and she worried for her mother and Mr. Carson – and even Lavinia, she supposed – but it all seemed to be happening as if to someone else. She should have known of course, that Sir Richard would have ulterior motives for rushing to Downton as he did, but even her interactions with him were as if on another plane.

No, the only person she could truly see and feel at the moment was Anna. Sweet, brave Anna would finally marry her Mr. Bates, and she would do so with Mary's blessing. Yet, as Mary sent her off to join herself with a suspected murdered, she could not help but feel a twinge of sadness beneath her breast. Sybil was to marry a chauffeur and Anna was to marry a man who might yet be a murdered (she hoped not, of course, but facts were facts). Why could she have not been content to marry a solicitor and live her days in relative comfort at the side of the man she married? He loved her then and now and always, yet he would marry Lavinia and she Sir Richard and each would regret it for all their born days. If Edith had not called her to their mother's bedside at the moment, she would have lain down and cried. For the first time she recognized the true value of Sybil's nursing: it was nearly impossible to find time to pity yourself when you were busy attending to the sick and dying.

It would naturally be Sybil, then, who bore the news that Lavinia had taken a turn. And then she died. The shock of it, really, was nearly too much and they moved through the house as zombies, rarely – and barely – speaking to one another. For Sybil the days leading to the funeral passed in a blur. She had called Tom at the Grantham Arms to share the terrible news with him. She did not believe, she added, that she was likely to find an opportunity to visit him in the village before the funeral.

"You know how these things are," she said quietly, as their call ended. He did not know, no, not how these things were in the House of Grantham, and certainly not when the dead girl was the fiancée of the heir who was madly in love with the oldest daughter who was herself engaged to a man with the power to destroy her good name. There would be time to learn how these things were, however, so he simply agreed that he did and suggested he would see her at the church where he, too, would pay his respects to Lavinia Swire.


	18. Chapter 18

Sybil's joy after receiving her father's blessing to marry Tom was short-lived; by the time she returned home, Mr. Bates had been arrested and removed from the estate and yet one more scandal launched upon Downton Abbey. The sight of Mary sitting with Anna in the library, speaking quietly while Sir Richard paced the perimeter of the room gave Sybil a start. When she entered the room Mary looked toward Sir Richard, commanding him, it appeared, to intercept Sybil before she approached any nearer.

"Lady Sybil, I'm afraid I have terrible news," he began, "John Bates had just been arrested for murder."

Sybil was torn between tearing to Anna's side in an attempt to provide some measure of the support and comfort Anna had provided her over the years and retreating someplace quiet to digest this most recent piece of awful news. She saw Mary motion her away and determined to let them be; after all, she was leaving for Ireland imminently and would be of no use to Anna from then anyway.

When she packed for her failed elopement, Sybil took almost nothing. In their haste to leave Downton, she simply hadn't had time to consider what from her old life she wanted to carry into her new life. This time, however, as she nursed her mother back to health and then in those bleak days after Lavinia's death but before her funeral, Sybil had had nothing but time to consider her packing. In the end she settled on two trunks and a small overnight bag. The trunks she packed full of clothing, mostly, especially her nurses uniforms, which she hoped to put to use again in Dublin. Naturally she added the well-worn shawl Cathleen had stitched two Christmases ago and she included the vanity set she'd been given as a girl, with its silver-framed mirror and the brush and comb Anna or one of her sisters had so often fought through her masses of hair, as well as what photographs she had of her family and her collection of scrapbooks from girlhood through the beginning of the war, when she had given them up.

Several of her favorite books were carefully packed and bound for Ireland, but most would remain at Downton. The stuffed bear she had carried back from America made the cut; the collection of dolls that seemed to grow with every holiday did not. She included a few more practical items as well: the alarm clock she had begun using in York, for example, as well as the Kodak Brownie camera her father had presented to her as a young girl. Into her trunk went a small book of recipes – simple fare that Daisy had quietly helped her to master beginning with the cake she baked on the eve of her departure for York. The last item she packed, this so precious that it merited space in the overnight bag that would never leave her side, was an envelope of letters she had received over the years, some from Tom, but many more from her mother and father, and even a few from her sisters, anytime she had been away from them. Under the letters, still inside the envelope, was the fabric covered book he had given her over four years ago.

Beyond the consideration Sybil had given to what she would take with her to Ireland, she had also given consideration as to how she would make that first leg of the journey: with no chauffeur and without her father's blessing, she would need some way simply to get from Downton to the station. She had finally persuaded a reluctant Edith to drive her to the station; although her father had now given his blessing, she saw no reason to change her plans.

As dawn broke following Lavinia's funeral, Thomas carried her trunks to the car and Edith started the engine. Sybil had said good-bye to the rest of the family and the staff the night before, on an evening more morose than even when Lavinia had died. Despite offering his blessing and his hand, defeat hung about Robert as the morning mists on the moors; in one week's time he had suffered the scandal of a daughter eloping with a servant, the near death of his wife, and actual death of his heir's fiancée, and the arrest of his valet and friend on murder charges. He could not envision at that moment that his world could ever forsake him more than it had done these past days.

"Just because I'm driving you to the station doesn't mean I agree with what you're doing. You know that, right?" Sybil didn't blame her sister for these terse words, but had hoped to allow her last glimpses of home to be unmarred by disagreement.

Sybil nodded, slowly, "Yes, Edith, I'm aware of how you – and everyone else – feels. And I know it's early. So I thank you, truly, for doing me this favor."

Edith softened. "You'll still let us know when the wedding is, right? So that Mary and I might attend if Papa will allow?"

At least it had been a short fight, one last sputter of disagreement, as though uttered from a sense of duty and not feeling.

"Of course, Edith, and I do hope you will be able to come. Papa said yesterday we'll see about him and mama, but I don't expect he'd ever agree to come. You and Mary I think he might allow, though."

The pulled into the station and when Edith turned to face her, Sybil was surprised to see the tears beginning to brim forth from Edith's eyes.

"You're sure then?" Edith asked gently.

"I am, Edith. I only hope one day that you find this same happiness."

"I don't believe Mary wants to marry Richard at all," Edith said then, changing the angle of their conversation.

"Nor do I. Which is all the more why I must marry the man I love."

Sybil had no sooner uttered these words than he appeared, greeting them quickly before moving to the rear of the car to manage the trunks. Sybil had the fleeting thought to instruct him to leave it to a porter, before she remembered that, traveling third class as they were, there was no porter.

"Good bye, Edith, and thank you. For everything." Sybil hugged Edith close to her, realizing it had been many years since any of the Crawley sisters had embraced in this way, and willing Edith to understand that her last words were her truest: she was most grateful that Edith had never revealed her plans to their parents or anyone else, especially as she knew all too well the depths to which Edith might sink in a moment of anger.

"Good bye, Sybil. Good bye, Branson," Edith said, turning now to the former chauffeur, this man who had taught her to drive, had given her a measure of the freedom he now gave her sister, and who was now breaking up her family. She thought of her father just then, how he had not wished to part angrily, and she added quickly, "Thank you for teaching me to drive. I may even need to now!"

"You're very welcome, milady, just treat her well."

With that, Edith took her leave and Tom gently guided Sybil toward the waiting train, his fingers laced through hers for all the world to see. They climbed aboard and settled into their seats.

"Are you ready, milady?" Tom asked quietly as the whistle blew and the wheels began to turn.

"Of course, I'm ready. And you know I'm not a Lady anymore!"

"You'll always be milady, Sybil."

"Perhaps I should call you Branson, then."

He laughed. "I think I prefer Tom."

So did she. She had woken up early that morning; in truth 'woken up' was generous, as she had barely slept the night before. This was partly due to her anticipation at leaving Downton and partly owing to her utter, utter sadness at Anna's situation. In many ways, her good bye to Anna had been the most difficult she'd had to make.

"I shan't say good-bye Anna, for I know in my heart I will see you again."

"Milady, we can none of us know what our futures hold. I wish you and Mr. Branson much love and happiness and if we meet again I will consider it my own good fortune."

"Thank you, Anna. Honestly, if it hadn't been for you, I don't believe I would be marrying Tom. I owe so much to you. I hope one day you and Mr. Bates can be happy together, too."

"That I do, as well. Now you must take good care of yourself."

"Anna, I shall miss you so!"

"And I, you, Lady Sybil. The best of luck to you."

Anna had left her room then, the first time Sybil could remember her leaving before she was properly dismissed. Had she left that Sybil might not see her tears? For while Anna had witnessed the tears of each Crawley sister more times than she could count, Sybil couldn't remember once that she had seen Anna cry.

The rhythmic sounds and motions of the train were quickly lulling her to sleep, and as she drifted toward her rest she remembered the thrill she got the first time she had spoken his proper name aloud to him. Even now it still gave her a bit of a thrill to call him Tom instead of Branson. This was her final thought before blackness overtook her mind.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, as the train bearing their daughter away from one life and into a new one pulled slowly into the Liverpool station, Cora and Robert were just beginning their day. In many ways, this morning marked the beginning of a new life for them, as well. Not only had Sybil left that morning, but Matthew, too, had departed early, driving by car to Manchester where he intended to seek employment in his old firm. Robert was ashamed that he could not honestly say which departure cut him more deeply.<p>

"Good morning, Robert," Cora blinked open her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost 9 o'clock, my dear. We've slept a bit late this morning."

She sat up, her new reality quickly settling heavily over her. "How do you think Sybil is?"

Robert harrumphed loudly.

"Oh, come now, Robert. These things can't be helped."

"In your world, your very American world, perhaps not. In my world they can be and should have been."

Listening outside the door, O'Brien backed carefully away. For once she agreed very much with his lordship, although she'd held her tongue as her ladyship had wept bitter tears after bidding her youngest good night and good bye some 12 hours earlier. Coming to check that her Lady had made it through the night and into the morning, O'Brien was reassured to hear their voices and decided it best to let them be.

"Oh, Robert, really. You can be so impossible sometimes."

"What I don't understand is how none of us saw this coming."

Here O'Brien paused, wanting very much to burst in with the news that downstairs they had seen it coming, had seen it for years now, the way Lady Sybil would slink out the back door on her way to the garage, the way she and Branson had looked at each when they thought no one was watching, the thick letters that came for Anna anytime Lady Sybil was away – and how Anna always needed a quiet chat with Branson after receiving one. No single incident had ever amounted to anything, but over time the pattern was such that every servant, from Mrs. Hughes to Daisy had their suspicions. I should have said something, O'Brien thought. For once I kept quiet and I shouldn't have done. She approached the door again.

"Maybe we did see, but pretended we didn't."

"Now you're being ridiculous," Robert nearly spat this last word, but Cora was undeterred.

"Years ago, Robert, after she was hurt in that dreadful fight, when she threatened to run away if Branson wasn't here in the morning. Or how often she suddenly remembered she needed something from Ripon and asked for the car. How often did Sybil need the car as compared to Mary or Edith? And how many times did you see her saying a few quiet words to him in your library? How many times does her name appear above his – or his above her – in the book register? How many other clues did we need?"

Cora let out an anguished cry and Robert, pacing the floor, felt the blood drain from his face at the truth in her words.

"O'Brien should be in soon. Shall I join you for breakfast?" she asked finally, virtually dismissing him from her presence.

He nodded numbly, then opened the door and nearly fell into O'Brien's arms, raised as one was to knock at the door. She bowed and he acknowledged her curtly with a slight nod of the head.

"Good morning, O'Brien."

"Good morning, milady. Only I couldn't help but overhear that last bit. I wish that it were a good morning for you. My mother always said, 'this too shall pass,' and I hope this shall. May I help you dress? I've prepared your mourning clothes."

"I've always told my girls that things would look better in the morning. Not everything does, though. But, yes, please, the black silk. Between poor Lavinia and then Matthew leaving for Manchester and Sybil…" Cora's voice trailed off. "I'll need plenty of mourning clothes, O'Brien, and see to it that Anna prepares Mary and Edith's mourning clothes as well."

It struck O'Brien as strange to think of Mary mourning the loss of her rival and the man who had spurned her; though she said nothing to her ladyship about this oddity, she did mention as much to Thomas later that day.

"It seems plenty strange, if you ask me, mourning for that poor dead girl like she was family and not here to carry off Matthew once and forever."

Thomas took a long drag on his cigarette and let a smoke cloud form and billow around him.

"I keep telling you there's plenty strange about aristocrats. I suspect Mr. Branson will be learning that for himself soon enough, if he hasn't already." Thomas snorted, flicked the butt of his cigarette to the dirt and ground his heal over its remains.

"It's not an especially pretty city, is it?" Sybil asked as they made their way from the train station to the docks and the boat that would carry them across the Irish Sea. "Not like London or York or even New York."

"Or Dublin," Tom added.

Sybil had slept for most of the train ride. A part of him had been disappointed but he had also been relieved to see how soundly she slept on the uncomfortable bench seat. He knew she had been tired, for the few times she had visited him at the Grantham Arms, she had looked on the brink of collapse, but he had still not expected her to nod off so quickly on the train. Perhaps she would sleep on the sea crossing as well, he hoped, for the trip between Liverpool and Dublin could try even an old salt and as he looked toward the sea conditions today seemed primed for large swells and heavy surf.

"Is this our boat?" Sybil asked, excitement growing in her voice. "It's so big."

"Aye, it is," thinking of home and hearing the voices of the newly disembarked passengers, Tom slipped unconsciously into the cadence of the Irish.

Tom handed their tickets to the man at the gangway, who confirmed their trunks had been brought aboard and would be waiting for them dockside in Dublin.

They clambered up the steps of the Greenore and took seats in the lounge when Tom thought to ask, "Sybil, do you remember if you were seasick on the boat to America?"

The color drained from her face. "Why didn't we think of that earlier? Of course, of course I was. But this won't be so bad, right?"

"I did think of it, but I didn't want to worry you. Let's take seats on the open deck, near the rail. It's usually a bit better out there." Tom squeezed her hand and hoped it would be a smooth crossing.

It was quickly apparent that the crossing would not be smooth, and Tom was thankful for the fine weather than allowed them to remain out of doors where Sybil, although slightly green in the face, was bearing up well. He remembered his last crossing, when he and the rest of his fellow passengers had been sick almost from dock to dock. Thank God this crossing wasn't so rough, for he thought he'd like to at least be married before he had to face the "in sickness" part.

Facing into a stiff headwind, the crossing took almost five hours instead of the customary three. The sun was low in the sky when the gangway clanged onto the dock and its last rays painted the city with a deep bronze tint as they began the last leg of their journey to Mrs. Branson's home. There could have been no worse time for an English woman, a _Lady_ no less, to move to Ireland and as she saw the soldiers standing, locked and loaded, at every corner Sybil could not help but shudder – and hope that this was not a very grave mistake.


	19. Chapter 19

The first weeks, before and while the banns were even read, had been the most difficult. Tom had begun work as a journalist immediately, leaving her alone with his family for the long hours between breakfast and dinner. Sybil spent her days searching for work as a nurse and learning the tasks that would be the backbone of her life as a middle class wife. Patiently, Mrs. Branson taught her to wield a needle and thread to darn socks and mend shirts, to turn vegetables into stew, to press linens and wash pots. Mrs. Branson had been stunned by Sybil's complete inability to perform even the simplest tasks, but she supposed the girl was a quick study and eager to please so she continued with her lessons while wondering how her son had managed to find such a wife. And the way she spoke of nursing! Mrs. Branson had tried, gently at first and then more firmly, to make her understand the extent to which the hospitals were run by the Church, but the girl simply would not listen, insisting on striking out more afternoons that not to seek employment.

During these weeks, Tom wrote endless copy on the constantly evolving situation in Ireland. In early 1919, the successful Sinn Fein candidates had refused to take their seats in Westminster and instead constituted a Parliament, the _Dáil Éireann_, in Dublin, which was in effect the beginning of the War for Independence. As he and Sybil were sailing for Ireland, the _Dáil_ was appointing its ministers, including Éamon de Valera as President. Obviously, the newspaper had not hired him to report on boat races and women's fashions. If Sybil had not fully grasped the inherent dangers in the situation, his mother had and pleaded with him to be careful. She was no more eager to be faced with a bereaved aristocratic fiancée than she was to be faced with burying another child.

Tom had expected to have the banns read the first three Sundays they were in Dublin and to be married in the fourth week. It was not until he was back in Dublin proper that he realized this was no more possible than it was for them to wed in Ripon: Sybil was not Catholic and could not be married in the church. Furthermore, friends, family and now, colleagues, alike had expressed disdain that he would marry an English woman. He did not tell them that, technically at least, she still bore the title 'Lady.' Tom had no doubt that once they met her, they would warm to her, and wisely determined to delay the wedding until his circle might know her better. This delay also had the double advantage of allowing time for Tom to find a proper flat where they could live once they were married and for Robert to agree that Mary and Edith could travel to Ireland for the wedding.

The day neared, those of Tom's friends and family who were not won over completely by Sybil at least warmed to her nicely, and Robert agreed that Edith and Mary could travel together for the wedding, so long as they stayed no more than week in Dublin. So it was that Sybil's older sisters came to disembarking from an overnight ferry one fine, spring morning. Sybil waved an enthusiastic hello from her place on the docks as Mary and Edith descended the gangway. Edith offered a small wave in return while Mary nodded her acknowledgement. Tom had gone to no small trouble to arrange to greet the Crawley women rather than attend one of the political meetings that were his beat. He had been nervous about seeing them again, particularly Lady Mary, but he smiled warmly all the same.

"Good morning, Lady Edith, Lady Mary," Tom said kindly as Sybil hugged her sisters. "Did you have a nice journey?"

"Not especially, no, and it _is _dreadful to travel without one's maid," Mary responded coolly.

"Mary's in a bad temper this morning because she was rather green on the boat," Edith chimed in.

Tom hailed a cab and directed the driver to one of the finest hotels in the city. He stayed at the hotel long enough to see that Mary and Edith were properly settled into their rooms, and then took his leave of the women.

"Are there always so many soldiers, Sybil?" Edith asked as soon as Tom had left.

"I'm afraid so," Sybil said, then added, hastily, "but they won't bother you; you've nothing to fear."

"But they might bother _you_?" Mary questioned, before changing her mind.

"Really, Edith, must you ask so many questions? I should like nothing better than a bath and a rest and I can think of nothing else until I've done so," Mary spoke in her most imperious tone, ringing for the maid to draw a bath and, in doing so, dismissing her sisters.

"Shall we take a walk, Edith? The flowers are lovely right now."

Edith and Mary enjoyed the parks and gardens while Mary bathed, rested and, quite probably, sulked in their room.

"How are mama and papa?" Sybil asked.

"Papa is angry and mama is sad. They're as to be expected, really. Sybil, we hear every day that a real war is afoot in Ireland. Are you still quite certain about marrying Tom and living here?"

"Oh, Edith, must we have this conversation again? I am completely, completely certain. Papa did not agree for you to come only in the hopes you might yet change my mind, did he?"

Edith laughed. "No, I think if he'd felt there was any hope for that he might have come to do it himself. It's only all of the soldiers…I had no idea. But if you're certain, then we'll speak no more of it."

"How is Anna?" Sybil asked, "And Mr. Carson and the others?"

"Anna is scared, but she believes in Mr. Bates' innocence and believes the magistrates will judge him so. Mr. Carson is still rather in a state of shock, I believe, from recent events. With Lavinia dying, you and Tom leaving, and Mr. Bates arrested, to say nothing of his own scare with the flu, he's hardly had a chance to catch his breath. None of us has, really. But, Carson has hired Thomas to serve as footman again, so at least he's not got to polish the silver himself anymore! Mrs. Hughes sends her love. It's odd, really, but she never seemed especially surprised that you left Downton. Do you suppose she knew about you and Bran, I mean, you and Tom?"

"I couldn't say," Sybil lied, falling back on her old reflex of hiding all aspects of her relationship from all parties.

"Do you like life in Dublin, Sybil?"

"I do, quite. It's very different to live in a city than to live in the country. Perhaps it's no different from the seasons we spent in London, although I'm afraid I don't have strong memories of what life was like then. And, of course, it's very different not to have maids and butlers and the like. I'm learning to do all sorts of things for myself now, Edith, simple tasks like mending clothes and pressing them, scrubbing out pots and making stews…" she laughed.

"I must sound rather like a bore, but I am enjoying these things. I still hope to find a position as a nurse, of course, but until I do I think it's well to learn these things. I want to be a proper wife."

She paused after this last statement and blushed, afraid that perhaps her sister would be insulted. After all, she had just implied that any woman who could not replace a button or do the washing was not a proper wife. Edith simply nodded, however, taking in the changes in her sister, the confidence and purpose, the sense of fulfillment that hung about her, and wondered how her life might have been different had she, too, become a nurse in the throes of the great war.

Several days later, Lady Sybil Crawley finally became Mrs. Tom Branson and sealed it with a kiss before the small audience of Tom's mother and siblings and her own sisters. She regretted that her parents were unable to witness this happy occasion and said a small prayer for them that they might all be reconciled once more. Her hand shook as she signed the register, inking the name Sybil Branson for the first time. Mrs. Branson had labored over a small but beautiful cake, begging ration coupons from virtually every person of her acquaintance to buy the eggs, sugar, cream, and flour that she needed. Eating this cake, Tom could not help but think of the cake Sybil baked on the eve of her departure for York and wondered if she, too, was remembering how she snuck him a slice on one of her mother's fine china plates. They drank punch and real coffee with the cake sitting in the small but cozy Branson family parlor. Following cake, Tom and Sybil would see Mary and Edith onto their boat for the evening crossing to Liverpool before enjoying a meal in one of Dublin's restaurants and retiring, together, to their new home.

"Give my love to mama and papa," Sybil requested as the sisters parted and Tom saw to their trunks.

"Good bye, Sybil. Good bye, Tom," Edith responded.

"Take care of her, Branson. Don't let her get her fool self killed in this Irish war," Mary instructed as they left, before adding to Sybil, "I hope you'll be happy, Sybil. I can't possibly see how, of course, but I hope you will."

Despite Mary's comments, Tom and Sybil enjoyed themselves mightily at dinner, with Sybil even trying her first mug of real, Irish ale. She made a face as she took a sip and Tom laughed heartily. Although he had planned a meal free from conversation about her family, noticing a faraway look in her eyes part-way through dinner, Tom couldn't help but ask, "Are you thinking about your family, Sybil?"

"I am, yes. Mostly I am thinking about Mary, though. She seemed so unhappy."

Lady Mary had never seemed to Tom happy by any definition. Although he and Sybil had shared many criticisms of her oldest sister throughout the years, he did not want to begin his marriage criticizing his sister-in-law. Sybil continued.

"Edith told me Mary has been wearing full mourning clothes. Edith couldn't understand how Mary could be mourning so deeply for Lavinia, but on the crossing from England, Mary told her it was a way of postponing her marriage to Sir Richard. She told him it would be inappropriate to marry while in mourning! Can you believe it?"

"I think I could believe almost anything you told me about Lady Mary," Tom said quietly.

Sybil laughed.

"She's managed to delay the wedding at least until the fall. Edith doesn't believe she'll ever truly go through with it."

"Would it really be so terrible if she broke with him? I understand the scandal, but is it really better for her to marry a snake like Sir Richard?"

Even Tom was surprised by what he had said, but Sybil just shrugged.

"She wants a position, Tom. You can't understand and I can't explain, but that's what she wants. She won't have one any other way."

"Sounds like a deal with the devil to me."

Tom could not help but wonder then how two sisters could be so utterly different from one another. Sybil simply nodded her agreement though and the rest of meal passed without any mention of the Crawleys.

Finishing dinner, Tom led her to the flat he rented and where her things had been brought earlier that day. As they walked, hand-in-hand, toward their new life he had to remind himself more than once that she was finally, truly his. He worried once what she would think of their new home, but when he turned the knob to reveal a warm and cheerful parlor and tidy kitchen just beyond, her joy was immediate. In the weeks since he moved into these rooms, he had taken pains to make them into a home, hanging pictures, stacking quilts, and, early this morning, even adding flowers, to them. Over the mantle hung a picture of Downton Abbey, in homage to her home and the place that led him to her. He had gone to no small trouble, photographing it himself and having the film developed and the image framed in the weeks since they'd arrived in Dublin.

"Tom, it's wonderful!"

"Do you really like it, Sybil?"

"Yes, of course. And the picture of Downton! It's beautiful! Wherever did you find it?"

"I took it myself. A reminder of home, for you, and of the place that brought us together, for me."

Sybil was moved beyond words at this gesture and would have stood frozen before the fireplace had Tom not redirected her attention to a small bookshelf in one corner. Glancing over the titles she realized he had brought all of his books, of course, but also purchased some that he knew to be her favorites from her father's library. Incredibly the emotion that rose within her at that moment was anger – anger toward her father who could not see that Sybil could search the earth and never find a man who would care for her more than Tom Branson. Quickly, however, the anger ebbed and gave way to unbridled joy. She squeezed his hand tightly in hers and reached up to kiss him in happiness and thanks.

After she had thoroughly delighted in the parlor, he gave her a cursory tour of the kitchen. Here, Sybil's first thought was to wonder if Tom knew how to use all of the various utensils she found there, for she certainly hadn't yet moved beyond a single knife for chopping and peeling and a large spoon for stirring.  
>He led her down a short hallway with one door on either side. Behind one was the bedroom and behind the other was that most rare and precious commodity for a Dublin flat: a bathroom. It was cramped and small, of course, with a tiny sink, toilet, and narrow tub, but it was theirs and theirs alone. The single little room meant rent that was double what they could have paid in a comparable apartment without a bathroom, but Tom had determined that sharing a bathroom with unknown neighbors was one sacrifice, and perhaps the only sacrifice, that he was not prepared to ask of his Sybil. As he watched her eyes widen and her hands clap together, he knew he had made the correct decision.<p>

"Would you like to prepare for bed, Sybil?" Tom asked quietly.

She nodded a bit hesitantly.

"Mary pinned my hair for me this morning and the dress I wore for our wedding has more hooks than I know is practical. Can you help me with these?"

Other than keeping secrets and counseling on matters of the heart, Tom had never fully grasped Anna's role as a ladies' maid. He realized now that there was a very practical side to her job, at least so long as women continued to insist on such impractical attire.

"Certainly, milady, just tell me what to do," he jested.

She laughed, her nervousness dissipating, as she instructed him how to find and remove the pins from her hair and unhook the buttons along her spine. He fumbled initially, amazed at the weight of metal he removed from her hair.

"It's rather astounding that you can hold you head up with all these pins fastened into your hair!"

"It's not so bad when it's only pinned for dinner, but for an entire day, it does begin to feel very heavy."

After assisting her as requested, he turned his attention to his own attire, removing and carefully folding his garments that they might remain presentable one day more before Sybil would need to press them. He joined her in the bed then, whispering quietly, "I have waited six years for this," before he kissed her.

She awoke the next morning tucked snuggly against him, his arms holding her tightly to his side and his breath warm upon her neck. She stirred and he spoke as quietly as possible.

"Are you awake?"

She nodded, then rolled over so that she could face him.

"I have a surprise, milady. I thought you might like to see other cities in Ireland, so I've arranged a few days' journey for us."

"You mean a honeymoon, Tom? A proper honeymoon?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"But how will we afford it?"

Now it was his turn to laugh.

"Compared to your father, we may be poor, Sybil, but we're really very middle class, especially by Irish standards."

"But how? I haven't even found a job as a nurse?"

"Sybil, I want you to work as a nurse because it is something you love. But it's not necessary in order for us to live. I make enough at the paper and, besides, I always told you that your father was a very fair employer, and he was. After years' in his employ, I certainly managed to save a tidy sum."

She felt foolish now, for it should have been obvious to her that they were not truly poor, particularly when he revealed that their flat included a private bath. She realized then how very much she had to learn still.

"Will you teach me about expenses, Tom?"

It was an unusual request from a woman. He knew from his years at Downton that Robert alone understood and controlled the finances of the great estate, but Tom should have expected nothing less.

"Women's rights begins at home, I suppose," he said cheerily, remembering some of the first words he'd ever heard the woman who was now his wife utter.

"Yes, yes, it does," she responded, leaning into him with a kiss.


	20. Chapter 20

Although Sybil was delighted by the prospect of a honeymoon, the trip Tom arranged turned out not to exactly what she had envisioned. They traveled by train from Dublin to Galway and then on to Limerick. On the third morning in Limerick, Sybil awoke to find a note next to her pillow: _I've gone to cover a meeting. I hope to return this afternoon. Tom._ Gone to cover a meeting? But where? And on their honeymoon? Sybil was annoyed that he would do such a thing but it was a wet and dreary day and she supposed she didn't mind terribly sitting by a fire with a book. When he hadn't returned by tea, though, she began to pace the room and had worked herself into such a state that she didn't hear the key in the door.

"Did you have a nice day, milady?" Tom asked as he entered.

"A nice day? Are you mad? Where have you been?"

"I was at a meeting. I hope you found the note I left."

"Yes, I found your note. How dare you, really? It's bad enough that you left me for an entire day on our honeymoon, but you didn't even have the courage, or the courtesy, to tell me beforehand. I hope you have a better explanation than _I've gone to cover a meeting_."

"I didn't want you to worry, Sybil."

"Did you honestly believe that I wouldn't worry simply because you left note? You didn't even say where the meeting was. Why anything could have happened to you and I would have never known. Please, explain yourself."

Tom tugged at his necktie and unfastened his collar. His nerves were frayed, first by the contentious meeting and second because he had been stopped by a constable of the Royal Irish Constabulary on his return to Limerick; fortunately, he had torn the pages of writing from his notebook and shoved them deep within a hidden pocket so that, while the RIC man was suspicious, he found no evidence of journalistic or IRA leanings and Tom was let go. "Damn the British," he cursed under his breath when he was a distance from the constable, remembering belatedly that a British wife was waiting for him at that moment. Of course, he should have known that Sybil would be nearly sick with worry and that it would have been better to tell her the truth before he left that morning. What did he expect?

"Would you like the long explanation or the short one?"

"I would like the complete explanation, please. And start at the beginning."

"We're in Limerick, in County Limerick. County Clare, which is just the adjacent county, is the seat of much of the unrest. Many people believe that the guerrilla war, when it begins, will begin in County Clare. When the paper, which it will not surprise you to learn is a nationalist, Catholic paper, learned I would be spending a few days in Limerick, they asked if I might cover a political meeting in Clonlara, several kilometers from here. I agreed, and that's where I've been."

"And how was the meeting?"

My God, he could have kissed her. Of course she would understand; she loved politics and meetings and the idea that there were people in the world working toward change. How could he have been such a fool as to not tell her the truth?

"The meeting was…in many ways it was like the count in Ripon years ago. It was loud and agitated and the people are angry. They've been under the thumb of the British too long and they're tired of waiting for whatever reforms the government's always promising. When the Dáil issued its Message to the Free Nations of the World, that there is an "existing state of war, between Ireland and England," these are the people they're speaking for – and to."

He omitted from his story that there direct calls for violence toward the RIC and that he had been stopped by one of the same less than an hour earlier.

"I understand your work is dangerous, Tom. And I understand how important it is to you. But you must not simply disappear. I can't help but worry, but you must at least allow me to know where you are going and to say a proper good-bye when you leave."

In case I don't come back, he thought, but this he kept to himself.

* * *

><p>After their honeymoon, Tom continued his routine of long days and sometimes longer nights, covering meetings and rallies across Dublin and elsewhere in Ireland, including the first attack against the Dublin Metropolitan Police in June, interviewing the members of the Dáil, and writing at length de Valera travels to America.<p>

"I don't understand why he's gone to America when Ireland needs him so," Sybil said one evening.

"Mmm, that's interesting," Tom responded, not looking up from his writing.

"Tom! You weren't listening to me at all! I said, I don't understand why de Valera had gone to America when he is so needed here in Ireland."

Tom blushed.

"Oh. Well he's gone to America to seek official recognition of Ireland as a proper country, separate from the United Kingdom, and also to seek funds for the Irish government."

"I don't think you've written that," she responded, and he realized she was reading the article he had written for that morning's paper.

Although many men would have been angry for a wife to find fault with their work, he realized instead that he had a valuable resource in this woman who wanted to know all there was to know of life. He was that evening preparing to interview Eoin MacNeill, the Minister of Industries and decided to seek Sybil's opinion on the questions he planned to ask.

"Ask him if there aren't any women in the movement."

When he jotted this question into his notebook he had no way of knowing that this single question, asked at the end of the interview, would so greatly affect his and Sybil's life in Dublin.

"Dr. Kathleen Lynn's one of the best we've got," Minister MacNeill responded. "One of the first women doctors in Ireland. Graduated from the Royal University with degrees in medicine, surgery and obstetrics. Joined the women's suffrage movement before the Great War and was the chief medical officer during the Easter Rising. She was imprisoned in Kilmainham Gaol for her part in the rising. She's still active in politics, but mostly now she's devoted to her hospital. Saint Ultan's. She only founded it earlier this year, and hires only women to work there. Doctors, nurses, secretaries, it doesn't matter. Only women. You ought to interview her."

Tom thanked the minister profusely and could barely concentrate on the story for which he had interviewed MacNeill. It was not his finest work, he was afraid, but he was so eager to tell Sybil of this Dr. Lynn that he didn't mind whatever corrections his editor would hand him in the morning.

He tried to remember everything Mr. MacNeill had told him of this remarkable woman when he relayed the story to Sybil at home but he shouldn't have worried. Sybil heard only that Dr. Lynn was a suffragette and ran a hospital that employed strictly women. She was smitten.

"Do you think she would hire me, Tom?" she asked cautiously.

Despite her repeated efforts to find a position as a nurse, Sybil still had nothing. She began to feel that she understood how Gwen had felt those many years ago when office after office turned her away when they saw she worked as a housemaid. In this case, it was not her occupation, but factors even more immutable that conspired against Sybil: she was British and she was not Catholic and that was as much as any of her interviewers thus far had cared to know.

"I'm to interview her tomorrow. I'll see if I can't learn a bit more about the type of women she hires."

Dr. Lynn was a warm and friendly woman and, as she admitted to him, she was flattered by Tom's enthusiasm for her work. As the interview drew to a close, he decided to take a chance and ask about Sybil's chances of landing a position at St. Ultan's.

"Are you still seeking nurses for your hospital, Dr. Lynn?"

"It's difficult to find well trained nurses in these times. Do you know someone?"

"Honestly, I do. My wife is a nurse. She was a nurse in England during the Great War, but she hasn't been able to find a position since we've moved to Dublin."

"I have to say, Mr. Branson, that it seems rather unusual. A qualified nurse with war experience and she can't find a position in Dublin? Does she have any letters of reference?"

"She does, yes. I should mention that she is British, though, and, uh, Protestant."

"That explains it then. Tell her to visit me at the hospital tomorrow. She should come early, and she should be prepared to wait, in case I'm tied up when she arrives. She can accompany me on my rounds and if she is truly qualified – and if she is still interested – then I'll hire her. Mind you, nursing doesn't pay well anyway, and we're a charity hospital, so the pay won't be much."

"I'll leave those discussions to the two of you, but believe me that this is not about money. She wants to be a nurse to help people."

"It's very unusual for a married woman to work, Mr. Branson. But I sense you're fully supportive of her aspirations?"

He told her then of their story, how Sybil had been – still was – the daughter of an earl and how their friendship evolved from a shared interest in politics and women's rights. He told her how Sybil had trained as a nurse during the war, and learned to make a bed and a kettle of tea before leaving for nursing college. He told her how she'd convinced her parents to transform their great house into a convalescent home and how she'd continued to work as a nurse their and at the hospital until the last man left. He continued with how they'd left Yorkshire in April and of their life in Dublin. Dr. Lynn was intrigued.

"Please ask her to come to me first thing tomorrow. I shall look forward to meeting such a remarkable young woman."

Sybil squealed like a small child and threw her arms around Tom's neck, nearly knocking him over, when he told her of his conversation with Dr. Lynn. She did not sleep that night, but tossed and turned in anticipation with what the next day might bring. She hurried Tom through coffee in the morning until finally he decided further delays were impossible and led her, hand-in-hand to the brand new hospital on Charlemont Street. It wasn't yet eight o'clock.

"Will you be able to find your way home from here?" he asked, unsure whether she had followed the maze of streets they had taken to arrive at their destination.

"It might be best if you come for me after you're done today."

"Do you really think you'll be here until I'm finished?"

"I do, yes."

Sybil's confidence was not misplaced. Dr. Lynn had been so impressed by the story Mr. Branson told the day before that she'd decided if his wife was half the nurse he'd made her out to be she would hire her that morning. Reading over the letters of reference Sybil presented, it was clear he had not oversold her.

"Did you really remove the bullets and flak yourself, Mrs. Branson?"

"I did, yes. There were so many men, you see, that sometimes the doctors weren't available to perform the routine tasks, and the things that could be done without anesthesia."

Dr. Lynn nodded; she could well imagine that the smaller, country hospitals had been ill-equipped to handle the men pouring in fresh from battle.

"And you've assisted with amputations, as well?"

"Yes, Dr. Lynn. Plenty of them."

"Well this is an infant hospital, mothers and babies only, so I don't imagine that you'll be called upon to assist with or perform such tasks here. Still, if you've proven your worth in a wartime hospital, and clearly you have, I shall be happy to have you on my staff. I can pay you £35 per annum, which I know is sounds terribly small, but we are a charity hospital. As a concession to your previous experience and your status as a married woman, I can at least offer you Saturdays and Sundays free and can allow you work only 12 hours the other days."

"I know I won't earn much as a nurse. I've read the pamphlet called 'A Plea for Irish Nurses by one of them' and I'm aware of the efforts of the Irish Nurses' Union. I believe what you are offering me is more than fair and I'm grateful for the offer."

What Sybil said was true. Staff nurses in Dublin were often paid as little as £30 for an entire year's work and expected to work 80 or more hours each week with only a single day off each month. (This while Ireland's men struck to secure a 44 hour week and the typical typist or clerk earned £200 per annum!) The salary Dr. Lynn offered Sybil was not only above this average, but she would work only 60 hours each week and have her entire weekend free each week.

"I'm pleased to hear it, Nurse Branson. It appears you have brought your nursing habit with you, so I'll give you a few minutes to change and then be much obliged if you'll accompany me on my rounds this morning."

Sybil had never seen such sickly infants and found it as difficult to listen to the raspy cries as it had been to listen to the anguished screams of the maimed. She was astonished to learn that most of the mothers could not read; many of them, already with half a dozen _páiste _at home were younger than she was. Tuberculosis, diphtheria, parasitic disease, and cholera were rampant to say nothing of the malnutrition that seemed to underlie ever condition.

"You wouldn't believe it, Tom," Sybil said as they walked home that evening. "Some of the babies are so sick they can hardly cry and their mothers, too. And these women, why most of them can only sign an X where they should sign their name."

He would believe it, of course. This was the life his mother had fought to save herself and then her children from and the life he had escaped. How easily he might have been married to just such a woman, how easily his own child might have been a case for a charity hospital.

"It's a different life here, Sybil. But I'm pleased you've found a position. I assume the terms are agreeable?"

He nearly froze when she told him the terms. He knew women were paid less than men but he never expected she would make an eighth of what he made. He was grateful that they truly could live without her income, for £35 would hardly cover two months' expenses. He had also not expected her to work such long hours. Although he was glad for her to something to occupy her days and her mind, it had never occurred to him that she wouldn't also be able to keep house or prepare dinner. If she was truly to work 12 hours days, though, such tasks would be impossible.

"Have you given any thought to how we might attend to the housekeeping duties, milady?" he asked gently, using his old way of addressing her as he did in his lightest moods or when he sought to deflect potential anger. There was no sense beginning with an argument.

"I haven't, no. I suppose we could hire a girl, couldn't we?"

Tom blanched. He had worked for years to escape the grind of service and the idea of becoming an employer made his hair stand on yet.

"Hire a girl? I've only just left service and now I'm to take a maid?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"And where would the money come from?"

"We have enough, Tom. My father was more generous than we expected, as was the newspaper. You know this isn't about the money."

What Sybil said was true. This wasn't about the money. They could pay a girl one-third of Sybil's per annum salary and all parties would think it a fair deal, more than fair, really. Tom just didn't like the idea of eating the soup some poor girl slaved to make for a pittance of a wage, even if it would be a very fair pittance of a wage. Still, as they prepared cold sandwiches for dinner, he realized unless he wanted two slices of bread and bit of cheese as his evening meal each night, he didn't have much choice.

"I'll speak with my mother tomorrow. She may know of a girl."

Although Mrs. Branson would have learned eventually that Sybil was working as a nurse, and that her son and daughter-in-law therefore required light help during the week, Tom regretted telling her so soon after Sybil accepted her position.

"She's only just started. Why doesn't she give her notice? After all, it is unusual for a woman to continue working after she's married. She should look after you – and eventually your children."

Nothing she had seen or heard since Tom and Sybil arrived from England convinced her that they weren't two of the most foolish young people she'd ever known. Still, and despite her instincts otherwise, she agreed to pass on the names of potential girls who could come a few days a week to do light cleaning, a bit of washing, and the cooking.

This was not the life Tom envisioned, not exactly, but as he met Sybil at the doors of St. Ultan's most every night, she wore the look of happy exhaustion that had so become her during the war, laced her fingers through his, and chattered happily – even when the subject was dark – as they walked home together. It was a far sight better than waiting in a garage in the hopes she might appear to say nothing that he had promised to devote himself to her happiness, and this she seemed to have found in spades.

* * *

><p>Author's note: I must acknowledge two invaluable resources for this chapter.<p>

_Margaret Huxley: Pioneer of Scientific Nursing in Ireland_ downloaded from the Royal College of Nursing website and available at http:/ www. rcn. org. uk/_data/assets/file/0005/298472/Margaret_Huxley_ch_6_BoN. rtf (spaces added so my url wouldn't be removed!) provided extremely detailed information on the state of Irish nursing at the time of the War of Independence.

_Seven Women of the Labour Movement 1916 Written and researched by Sinéad McCoole _and available at http:/ www. labour. ie/download/pdf/seven_women_of_the_labour_movement 1916. pdf set me on the trail of the remarkable Dr. Kathleen Lynn.


	21. Chapter 21

Tom had known since England declared war in August 1914 that he could not fight for the king and country that so badly abused his homeland. He knew a few Irish men who had fought, but thought them an aberration. They were not, or at least not entirely. Some 140,000 Irish men had enlisted, over one-third of who would give their last full measure. He was forced to confront these facts head-on in mid-July when he was asked to cover a meeting of over 100 representatives from all parts of Ireland to determine how best to memorialize Ireland's lost sons. Many of the men who jostled for the chance to speak had themselves fought on the Western Front, including one who had lost an arm and a leg serving at the side of Major William Redmond on the Somme. Redmond had been killed, but looking at the man before him, his one remaining arm steadying a crutch to keep erect, Tom wondered if death wasn't preferable.

Before arriving in Dublin, Tom never gave a thought to the way his lack of service might set him apart from others of his generation. In the months since he and Sybil arrived, though, Tom frequently found himself in the company of veterans from the places he and Sybil had tracked on their now worn and tattered map. In the company of only one veteran, Tom was adept at turning the conversation away from war, usually toward Ireland's own war, of which he felt more a part, or toward some other topic. When he found himself in the company of more than one man who had served in the trenches, however, he was resigned to staring into his mug, vacantly, and half-listening, or else feigning interest. He tried to remove himself as much as possible from these conversations, but occasionally this was impossible. As the debate over the scope of the memorial gardens ranged on, Tom allowed his attention to drift to the last time this had happened.

Tom's resistance toward hiring a girl to help with the housekeeping had been futile and, at a time when so many women were desperate for work, his mother had an easy time of finding them help. Tom had feared that she might find a girl, a woman, he had known before he left for England, and was grateful when the girl she brought to their home bore neither a name nor a face he recognized. She was a good worker, and the food she made was more than edible, if not up to par with Mrs. Patmore. Still, on nights Sybil worked late at hospital, tucking into no more than a sandwich for dinner, he could not bring himself to have her prepare anything for him and joined friends for a pub meal instead.

Under just such circumstances, two nights earlier he'd supped with two of his fellow journalists while Sybil worked late. Both of the other men had served in France. Instead of the conversation drifting in its usual pattern, to the campaigns they had fought and under whose command or calling roll on comrades living and dead until they found names of mutual acquaintance, the conversation turned sharply and focused on Tom.

"Why didn't you fight?" Mick asked.

"Too proud to enlist and too lucky to be conscripted, that's my guess," Eamon responded absently. This was the reason most of the men who hadn't fought gave; he wasn't really interested in hearing it again.

It would have been the safest response in the circumstances, but journalism was a profession that traded in the truth – mostly – and Tom did not wish to mislead his colleagues.

"No, I got the call up alright. Rejected on medical grounds. I have, let me remember precisely. I believe the exact condition is a mitral valve prolapse with a pansystolic murmur**. I wasn't good enough for them."

"Don't sound so bitter, Tommy. There's lots of boys that was cannon fodder that'd been only too glad for your pansystol, well for whatever's wrong with you." Mick meant well, but he only succeeded in making Tom feel worse.

"I had big plans to humiliate the army, make them pay for the way they're always treating us." In this pub with these men his brogue and his anger rose in unison.

"Heart murmur or no you could have fought in Ireland. Joined the Rising. Done something other than drive a bloody car around the countryside," Eamon was outraged that his colleague was satisfied to pretend that this heart valve thing was grounds to live idly in England for three years before coming home.

"My cousin was killed in the Rising. Shot on King Street." He shouldn't have said it; he should have sipped his ale and let the conversation end.

"As was my brother. But that's nothing to do with you," Eamon pressed.

"Does it matter? I've come now."

"And brought a British wife with you," Eamon said quietly.

His mind had churned thinking of what to say next. Was this man implying he was less Irish because of his wife? That they should have stayed in England? How dare he? Before Tom could react too rashly, Mick interceded.

"Mrs. Branson's a lovely woman. She's not like the rest, even if she does speak the King's English."

Tom flushed that Mick had risen to defend his wife. His normally nimble mind could think of nothing to say, nothing that would defend her honor or his or that could make him feel closer to these men – Mick and Eamon and the thousands more – who had survived one war and become entrenched in another. For the first time in his life, he felt an outsider. And a coward. He pulled some change from his pocket and nearly flung it onto the table, taking his leave from this place. Sybil did not ask what troubled him when he met her at the hospital later that night and he could not bring himself to unburden his worries on her. Much later, when her breathing was steady and even and he was certain she slept deeply, he turned onto his stomach, pressed his face hard into his pillow and wept bitter tears.

He returned his attention to the meeting at hand. Those present agreed Dublin needed a permanent memorial and they selected from their ranks a dozen men to form a Memorial Committee to raise funds for the permanent memorial. The group made no progress on what the memorial would be; Tom sighed as entered this point into his notebook, for he could only imagine the number of meetings he would be called upon to attend where one side argued the merits of an obelisk while the other sought a park. This one had lasted for hours as it was.

He struggled to give the story of the Memorial meeting character, but it had been a dull meeting – at least the parts he'd paid attention to – and he could not fix that flaw with a few strokes of his pen. The afternoon was unusually cold and wet for the middle of July and as he wrote, Tom found he was scolding himself to concentrate on the task at hand. His story finished, he made his way to a meeting of IRA men. The tone at these meetings had become harder, the edge more violent, in just the three or so months he had been attending. The first attack on a member of the Dublin Metropolitan Police had come in June and just this month a detective sergeant was fired on when returning home in the evening. Such violence was only the beginning; today, those in attendance were called upon to make a river of British blood course through the streets. Tom shuddered at the thought. He did not relish a man dying by his hands. As this thought entered his mind, so did the one that had nagged him since his dinner at the pub two nights before: perhaps he was a coward.

As they walked home from the hospital that night, Tom asked quietly, "Sybil, do you think I'm a coward?"

"Of course not. What a strange question though. Whatever makes you ask?"

He told her then about his dinner with Mick and Eamon, about the man who was missing the lower half of his left leg and most of his right arm, about the cries for British blood that had made him shudder. He did not long to kill a man as many others seemed to; he did not even particularly _want_ to kill a man.

"But I still don't understand. Your work as a journalist _is_ dangerous. And important. Why you've said many times how important newspapers are to the efforts, that without the papers only those who attend the meetings would know what is happening. No, I don't think you're a coward at all."

It was true. The newspapers were critical to disseminating the government's doctrines. The papers and priests facilitated Irish nationalism. Still, the "lost years" as Tom had been thinking of the years since the Rising nagged him.

"But maybe I'm just scared, Sybil. Maybe I don't want to find myself on either side of a bullet."

"Tom Branson, I've seen what bullets do to bodies, more than I hope you'll ever see. I should hope you have the good sense not to want to be on one or the other side of a bullet!"

"But what of the war? It seems all the men I know fought in France while I was driving around Yorkshire. Look at Downton. William, dead; Thomas, with his hand blown to bits; Matthew, who was nearly paralyzed. I thought it would be different in Ireland, but even here…" his voice trailed off and he struggled to make sense of his own thoughts.

"Tom, Tom, stop! You were called up to fight and you didn't pass the medical. It wouldn't matter if you'd enlisted. As for Ireland, if you feel that lying in wait for some member of the DMP and putting a bullet in his back is less cowardly than printing an article in the paper each morning under your own byline, where anyone from the King of England to Earl of Grantham to the Chief Constable of Dublin can see what you've written, then I suppose I can't stop you. But know this: a British woman has no place in Ireland on her own: if you end up in Kilmainham Gaol for ambushing a constable, I won't stay. You'll find me on the next boat to Liverpool."

"And if I end up there because of my work as a journalist?" He asked quietly, for journalists could certainly find themselves among the ranks of political prisoners.

"I'll hold my head high that you were imprisoned for telling the truth, not for killing some poor woman's husband."

"But will you still leave Ireland?"

"I don't see how I could stay, Tom."

They walked the rest of the way without speaking, each lost unto their own thoughts. Tom wondered how he, who had been so eager to fight for Ireland for years, had come to prefer a pen to a gun, when either might lead to a coffin. Look at his life, he was married to an English woman, employing a poor young girl to cook his dinner and scrub his floors, and shuddering at the idea of assassinating one of the oppressors. How had this happened?

Sybil wondered, too, whether her encouragement had been enough to chase away the demons of cowardice that lurked for so many men these days, and whether he would continue to believe that writing the news was as worthy of the cause as making it. She did not wish to pull the lead bits from him, not that she'd likely get the chance. If they caught you, they finished you and if they didn't you hid out in a safe house until they had bigger fish to catch. These were their thoughts as they walked through the summer twilight contemplating the choices and compromises life – and fate – had forced them to make.

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

I would be remiss not to mention the document _Irish Soldiers in the First World War_ available from the Irish government at http:/ www. taoiseach. gov. ie/eng/Taoiseach_and_Government/ History_of_Government/ 1916_Commemorations/1916Commemorations-BattleOfTheSomme1. rtf as the source of my information on Irish involvement in World War I, Michael Redmond, and the July 17, 1919, meeting regarding a memorial to the war dead.

** Tom's heart murmur was the piece of the entire series so far that I had the hardest time accepting, for in WWI all sides were so desperate for men that virtually no one was turned away. In England, typically you needed only your trigger finger and thumb on one hand and four front teeth, in order to hold the packet of powder in them to tear it. I could never understand how Tom would have been turned away by the military. What's more, I've learned the condition the writers gave him was not diagnosed until 1966. (You can read an interesting analysis here: http:/ public. shns. com/content/british-soldiers-hearts-and-downton-abbey.) Nevertheless, to keep true to the original script, I've included his condition as diagnosed on the show.


	22. Chapter 22

Married several months, Tom and Sybil fell into the rhythm of their life, rising early and working long days, each in the profession they aspired to. The doctors and nurses at St. Ultan's weren't honestly sure they expected Sybil, a married woman, to last as long as she had, but hewas a more-than-capable nurse and even the most difficult patients bent to her kind smile and sure touch. It was the rare mother who pulled a babe back into her arms declaring that no British nurse was going to examine her child. When this did happen, Sybil usually learned that that the child's father or uncle or grandfather had been killed in the Rising or executed at Kilmainham Gaol. Sometimes she let matters lie; if the woman seemed to wobble in her resolve, Sybil would tell a version of how she came to be in Ireland, or her husband's work at the newspaper, his cousin's death in the Rising, until eventually the mother could not imagine that she had only minutes previously recoiled from this kindly, British nurse.

In this state of well-deserved exhaustion the last weeks of July became the first weeks of August and then that month, too, passed from the present tense to the past. As the first week of that month, September, drew to a close, the tinder box fully exploded as the British launched an unofficial government policy of reprisals. Two hundred British soldiers looted and burned commercial buildings in Cork following an attack on members of the Royal Shropshire Light Infantry. The soldiers had been on their way to church. Five days later the Dáil was outlawed by the British and the Sinn Fein headquarters were raided by the police. Mick Collins escaped the raid, just, and both sides held their breath to see what came next.

As they sat down to Sunday dinner with Tom's family that week, his mother wasted no time asking the question that had been in the back of each of their minds, but which both had been too scared to verbalize.

"Tom, do you think it's safe for Sybil to remain in Dublin?"

Mrs. Branson the elder asked the question not out of antagonism, as she might have in the first weeks after her son and his aristocratic bride arrived, but out of genuine concern. She asked as a mother, knowing how she would worry if any daughter of hers were in such throes.

"I believe so, yes." Tom spoke defiantly.

"Sybil, dear, what news from your parents? Are they worried?"

What news of her parents? She had not received a letter in almost a month, come to think of it, and that one had been full mostly of news of Bates (he would go to trial in early days of the New Year) and of Mary (still officially mourning Lavinia, she had succeeded in delaying yet again her marriage to Sir Richard – spring of 1920 seemed the most likely date). Her mother asked little of life in Dublin and Sybil offered less. She had written with news of her position at St. Ultan's, of course, but included details of neither the salary nor the working conditions. Certainly she hadn't mentioned that she was working for a leading suffragette and strident nationalist. Her parents were aware the situation in Ireland was dangerous, but ignorance was bliss as far as the exact dangers were concerned.

"My parents are well. I believe they do worry some, but not terribly."

"I should think they worry. Why, I can't imagine how much I'd worry if my daughter lived across the Irish Sea!"

Sybil laughed.

"I suppose I've never mentioned, then, that my mother is American! Her own mother lives in New York, so I think Mama is glad it's only the Irish Sea that separates us and not the whole of the Atlantic!"

"So tell me, dear, have you ever crossed the ocean?"

Sybil was happy to regale her mother-in-law and the rest of Tom's family with stories from her visits to New York and the two crossings she had made. She described the city as she remembered it nearly a decade earlier, although she was certain much had changed. She tried to mimic her mother's speech, which drew laughs from those around the table, particularly her husband and his mother, and spoke of her American ways.

"I'd be very glad for the opportunity to visit America again, Mrs. Branson, not that I expect to, of course. I believe the women have greater freedoms. American women are soon to have the vote, you know. The same as the men."

Her mind wandered to the night in June that Tom had greeted her excitedly at the hospital.

"I have news, milady!"

"What is it, Tom?"

"The United States Senate has passed an amendment to their Constitution giving women the same right to vote as men!"

"Tom, that's wonderful! Think of it, my grandmamma finally able to vote."

"Well not quite, Sybil. It must first be ratified by the state legislatures. But soon, no doubt."

Sybil had been disappointed that the year before, when British women won suffrage, that it only applied to those over 30. She knew how her country had become increasingly dependent on the good opinion of the United States as the war ended, however, so she hoped that perhaps England might soon allow women the same right as men.

Her mother-in-law's voice brought her out of her head and into the moment. Sybil turned her attention to the conversation at hand.

"Would you really still cross the ocean, dear, after what happened to those poor people on the Titanic?"

Sybil was struck initially by the similarity of the question to one Tom had asked her previously. She became quiet thinking of that April morning when the telegram arrived bearing news of James's and Patrick's disappearance beneath the North Atlantic waves. It felt so long ago. Whether or not Mary would have wed Patrick – and Sybil believed she would have done – they never would have met Matthew or Cousin Isobel or lived so much of the drama that had enveloped the years before, during, and now after the Great War. Why, she might never have become a nurse. Strange how the fates intermingled that way, she thought.

"I believe we can't be afraid to live our lives. But what happened was terrible. My cousin – my oldest sister's fiancé in fact – was. He and his father, both. They never recovered the bodies."

Mrs. Branson and Tom stilled. If Mrs. Branson was surprised, Tom was stunned. He knew about Patrick and James Crawley, certainly, but Sybil had never told him that Mary was engaged to Patrick! How might it all have been different if Mary and Patrick had married? A proper lady of society, no scandal to sully his name, Tom realized Sybil would not have been able to purchase her silence and he was grateful, Tom was ashamed to admit, but grateful that events had unfolded as they had. He sat there, not wishing his surprise to show while his mother clucked her sympathies.

"It was a long time ago. I probably shouldn't have mentioned it."

Mrs. Branson seized the opportunity to return to her original line of questioning.

"Whether your parents have written of their worry, I must say that I am worried. And I'm not at all certain that it's entirely safe for an English lady such as yourself to be in Ireland right now. I understand you'll both likely not agree with me, but I think you two should discuss…should discuss what to do in case any thing happens. You're both mixing with people as likely as not to end as political prisoners."

It was a fair argument, for Tom's work certainly involved regular and extended contact with the Irish government, IRA men, and all sorts of others who might just as soon meet their end at Kilmainham jail, to say nothing of Sybil working for probably the best known female nationalist of them all. Her worries heightened and the legitimacy of them increased, to say nothing of the urgency, the following week when Mick Collins announced the formation of 'The Squad,' IRA men who targeted police detectives for assassination. Mrs. Branson's message that Sunday was more direct.

"Sybil, dear, if anything happens to Tom I'd like you to come live with me until or unless you return to England. You needn't say anything, either of you, but please do not argue. I can't sleep right knowing the two of you refuse to acknowledge what might happen."

Tom nodded, grateful that his mother had stated things so plainly – and that she would accept Sybil into her home if the worst – or even only bad – came to pass. Their agreement rendered, Mrs. Branson turned her attention to Sybil's nursing.

"How is the hospital, Sybil?"

"I suppose it's as well as a hospital can be. Of course the women and children we see are the poorest and they suffer so from illnesses which afflict them needlessly, but that they don't have access to clean water and proper sanitation. With access to water and even a bit of food, I believe many of them wouldn't be ill as they are at all. I understand that Sinn Fein's objective is freedom for Ireland, but I do think it a shame that they've insisted social reform be set aside until freedom is won."

Mrs. Branson raised her eyebrows. Sybil had struck her from the beginning as an intelligent young woman. Certainly she existed on a separate political plane from most any other of her countryman, to say nothing of her class, to be living in Dublin and working as a nurse at a charity hospital. Still, listening to Sybil speak was to hear an echo of Tom with a higher pitch and a British accent. She marveled that they should have found each other as they did and could well imagine that running off with the chauffeur was only the last in a long line of exploits that must have left her family aghast.

"Well said, milady," Tom responded, with a wink.

Later that night as they readied for bed Sybil asked if his mother was right to worry so.

"I hope not, but it's impossible to know what can happen in war. If the situation becomes especially desperate, we can think about you visiting Downton until it's more settled. But let's not worry on that now."

He kissed her then, as much to still whatever response she might have made as because he loved her. For the truth was he worried nearly as much as his mother, possible more, and had thought for some weeks that she may well need to request a visit home if the situation devolved. She would fight leaving him, he knew, and it was an argument he was not ready to have, at least not yet.

After the bloodshed of September, October was a quiet month. Tom ranged far and wide across the city and even traveled by train once or twice to report on the guerrilla warfare that was increasingly common throughout the country. Sybil did worry for him, but if the war had taught her anything, it was how to go about living while worrying on events far beyond your control.

Two months before Christmas she asked one night, "What shall we do for Christmas this year, Tom?"

"I imagine we'll have a small tree, exchange presents, and attend mass. What else would we do for Christmas?"

"Nothing, I suppose. I've never been away from my parents at Christmas. I imagine it will feel quite strange."

"It will be lovely, Sybil, I promise. I'll even make you my famous Christmas pudding."

"You have a famous Christmas pudding?" She laughed.

"Laugh now, but you can bet on it."

"But we shall be together for Christmas?"

He realized she had worried over his comment about visiting Downton for some weeks now.

"Yes, milady, we will celebrate Christmas together and see what the New Year brings. Then, if we think it will be safer for you in England, we can think about that."

"I believe I've looked forward to our first Christmas together since the year I spent a fall stitching your initials onto handkerchiefs. I couldn't tell which surprised you more, that I had a gift for you or that I knew your first initial!"

She laughed.

"I should have been surprised if you didn't have a gift, milady, for I'd gone to the trouble of getting a copy of the Ireland book so to have something in return. You were my friend, of course; it never occurred to me you wouldn't have a present for me, even if I was only the chauffeur."

"Do you know I kept that book between my mattresses for the year, right until I left for York?"

"I did know. Anna told me. She gave me a right scolding that I wasn't to get you any more presents that might give me away. She told me she should have told Mrs. Hughes that day!"

Anna had never mentioned this to Sybil. She must have found the book when she did the beds one week. My God, how different their lives might have been if she told Mrs. Hughes. For passing letters was one thing, but that book. She smiled thinking of it.

After a beat when Sybil still hadn't spoken, Tom said in a quieter voice, "She scolded me on Christmas Day and that was when I knew you were in love with me the same I was with you. I knew then I'd stay at Downton until you were ready to run away with me. I think Anna's scolding is the best Christmas gift I ever received, yours included!"

"Would you really have left, Tom?"

"Might have done. The Rising was only a few months later, and what was I doing, polishing the hood and tinkering with the engine. But I knew, _I knew_, if I stayed that eventually you'd admit you were in love with me."

"You always were rather full of yourself!"

Even if what he said was true, Sybil could stand for him to be right. Was she really so transparent?

"Don't argue, milady. It's late. Let's go to bed."

She wanted to argue, really she did, but the alternative, of lying in his arms close enough that she could feel his heart beating, was enough to convince her to lay down her disagreement. She laced her fingers through his and allowed him to lead her from the parlor for the night.


	23. Chapter 23

Sybil attributed the exhaustion she felt in late October and into November to the constant tension around her and the months she had spent working as a nurse, 12- or 14-hour days on her feet, bending, reaching, lifting, and twisting. She felt the strain of looking over her shoulder, watching for those who might come for her, by virtue of being British, or for her husband – or possible even for her – by virtue of their connections with leaders in the Dail, the IRA, and Sinn Fein. Even at home where her vigilance, if not her worry, slackened, Sybil worked constantly, washing up after dinner, preparing lunch pails for the next day, laying out the breakfast things, attending to their wardrobes. It helped to have a girl, but Tom had insisted and Sybil had agreed, that the girl would help with only those tasks that were absolutely necessary. He might be forced to pay someone to make his evening meal, but he would not have a maid launder his undergarments or change his sheets. These tasks fell to his increasingly weary wife.

When the exhaustion was unabating, however, and lifting her head from the pillow left her queasy, Sybil began to think she might not merely be tired, but pregnant. She was torn whether to tell Dr. Lynn of her suspicions, and risk being asked to resign, or keep quiet. Ultimately, she said nothing until she was on the brink of collapse and could barely hold herself upright without waves of nausea surging through her body.

"Dr. Lynn, may I speak to you a moment?" Sybil asked early one morning.

"Certainly, Nurse Branson. What do you need?"

"I'm terribly sorry to trouble you, but I fear I may be pregnant."

"Fear?"

"Well, no, not fear exactly. I'd be truly happy, really. I've hoped for this since we've been married."

"You do quite well with the infants at the hospital. I imagine you'll make a splendid mother. So I must ask, what is the trouble?"

"It's just, I'm wondering, is there a way, well how might I know for certain?"

"Do you menstruate regularly?"

Sybil blushed. "Yes."

"And the last time this happened?"

"I don't remember exactly."

"But it's been longer than usual?"

"I believe so, yes."

"And you feel ill and are particularly tired?"

"Yes."

"You can't know for certain for several weeks, but you most definitely sound pregnant to me."

"Then must I resign my position?"

Dr. Lynn's face wrinkled into a quizzical expression.

"I should hope not! I expect you'll need to in several months' time, once it's become too uncomfortable for you to work, but not before then. Unless you prefer to hand in your notice, of course. We'd certainly miss you, but there's nothing to stop you doing so."

"No, no, I love my work here."

"Very good. But, Nurse Branson, please do not allow me to over tire you. You must take care of yourself and get proper rest."

"Thank you, Dr. Lynn. I have one more question: is this the time I should tell my husband?"

"I believe it might be best if you wait a couple of weeks for that. You want to be more certain before you excite – or worry – him. Mind you, there's no telling how men will react to this type of news."

Thank God she had Dr. Lynn to speak to. She would much rather have had this conversation with her mother or even Cousin Isobel, but Dr. Lynn had been so kind to her and it was a relief to know she wasn't expected to resign immediately. She was embarrassed to ask when she should tell her husband, but Dr. Lynn didn't seem at all surprised by the questions. Then again, these were the conversations she had regularly with patients, the vast majority of whom were even more uncertain, or certainly less well equipped to deal a pregnancy, than Sybil.

The next weeks were the hardest as Sybil counted down the days to telling Tom her news. She was often irritably, which was not lost on him. He feared it the strain of life in a city at war was becoming more than she had bargained for and found himself thinking more frequently that a visit to Downton, if her family would allow it, might be in order. He delayed mentioning this, as he, too, was exhausted by the circumstances of their existence and needed to steel himself for what he believed would be a proper row.

More than the irritability, though, Tom noticed Sybil was often tired and unwell. He know the hours she kept and the illnesses she encountered in the hospital, though; in fact, it was amazing that she hadn't contracted anything serious, he thought more than once. Still, he hated to see her so tired that she nearly fell asleep in her soup. He determined he must say something and girded himself for the coming fight as he walked from the newspaper to the hospital as the first snowflakes of the winter fell and the darkness of December ensconced the city. As they walked through the falling snow on the now familiar route from hospital to home, she squeezed his hand; he could not know she, too, had much on her mind. He would have spoken up, but she decided it was time to reveal her secret just before he could eke out his opening argument.

"I have news, Tom."

"And what news is that, milady?"

"I'm pregnant. I've thought it was probably so for several weeks, but I'm quite certain now that we're to have a baby."

He drew her to him then, as he had that first time a year ago in a Yorkshire garage, and kissed her, there in the street, not caring who might witness this most improper display of affection. When he drew away she asked, "So you're happy then?"

"Happy? Happy? Milady, I couldn't be happier!"

"I'll have to leave my job, of course."

Yes, that. It did seem unfair that a woman should be forced to leave her position because of a child at home, but one never knew what was possible – the world was changing. Perhaps in a year or two his mother could watch the child and she could return to work. Of course, there would probably be more children by then, to say nothing of that fact that such an arrangement would certainly raise eyebrows among even the most liberal of their acquaintances.

"Will you mind terribly, Sybil?"

"I don't think so, Tom, not once the baby is here at least. I've found I rather enjoy babies, at least the ones who aren't too sickly."

He laughed.

"I think, too, that perhaps a grandchild might finally bring my family around. Papa may be unhappy with our union, but he'll not deny my mother the pleasures of a grandchild. I don't believe he'd deny them to himself, either."

"Then you must write and tell them. You've only just said last week that you were unable to find any gifts in the shops again this year. Perhaps you can offer our child as a gift for the future."

They reached home then and, as they entered, she pulled him to her in a tight embrace.

"We'll need to find a new flat, now, won't we?"

He hadn't thought of that, hadn't thought much of anything since she'd told him that they were to have a baby, only how very, very happy the idea made him, and how relieved he was to have a cause for irritability and exhaustion. When she'd mentioned her parents he thought fleetingly of his mother and how happy she would be, before refocusing on his own happiness.

"Shhh, we'll worry about the details later."

They would worry about the details, they decided, in the New Year; first they would enjoy the Christmas holiday. This was perhaps easier said than done, as December brought a further escalation in the violence around them. Unlike previous months when many of the incidents Tom and his colleagues covered occurred outside of Dublin, in December 1919, Dublin was the seat of much of the news. The IRA had intended to hold their National Convention in Dublin, but decided to call it off when they learned the convention itself, and the location, had become known to the British. The first public meetings of Commission of Inquiry into the Industry and Resources of Ireland set up by the Dáil were held in City Hall; perhaps because many in attendance were expected to – and did – give evidence opposed to Sinn Fein, Irish newspapers were not permitted to publish reports on the meeting.

"I can't believe I've got to read news of the meeting from foreign papers," Tom spat bitterly as he scanned an American paper a colleague managed to procure. "Bloody hell." Sybil looked up from her embroidery, surprised.

"I'm sorry, milady, I shouldn't speak that way. It's only that it doesn't seem to matter who's in power. Give the oppressed a bit of control and they behave the same as the oppressor."

"I believe that's always the way," Sybil said absentmindedly, counting her stitches. She did not mean to dismiss him so easily, but she needed now, more than ever, to insulate herself from the troubles at hand. Over dinner the night before Tom had suggested casually, too casually really, that Dublin might not be the place for a small baby.

"But look at all the infants at St. Ultan's, Tom. There are plenty of babies here in Dublin and the war is the least of their worries."

"Don't be so dense, Sybil. The mothers who take their children to a charity hospital don't have options. And they don't have English mothers, either."

She had fled from the table in tears at that, tightly latching the bedroom door behind her. As she sat, sobbing, in the middle of their bed she wished fervently for her mother, or even Mary or Anna. Tom knew better than to run to her side, but by the time he had washed their dishes and swept the floor as he knew she did each night, Sybil was fast asleep. Slightly damp streaks running from her eyes were the only evidence that the sleep might not be an entirely peaceful one. He retrieved a couple of quilts from the parlor and piled them onto her so that she would not be cold when she awoke.

The month would not improve. In the week before Christmas the IRA ambushed the Lord Lieutenant, Lord French. He managed to escape, although one IRA man was killed; Sybil was grateful Mrs. Branson had the foresight that spring to suppress that her future daughter-in-law was the daughter of an Earl.

Two days after their failed ambush, and angered by the coverage it had received, some two dozen IRA men stormed the _Irish Independent_ newspaper building and smashed all of the machinery in the plant. Tom agreed with the IRA that the _Independent_ was too unionist for its own good. After all, this was the same newspaper that actually printed the words "_no terms of denunciation that pen could indict would be too strong to apply to those responsible for the insane and criminal rising of last week_" in the days following the Easter Rising. As a journalist, however, the destruction of the printing presses served to remind him of the terrifying reality that journalists were often in the crosshairs of one or another side.

Only a day later, the British House of Commons began debating the "Better Government of Ireland Bill." The bill was drawn up by the British cabinet in close collaboration with the Unionists and proposed two separate Irish Parliaments, one for the six counties of Ulster and one for the remaining counties. There was no shortage of work for newspapermen that week, even if they went about it with one eye over their shoulder toward whatever danger might lurk.

Sybil, too, was distracted in the days before Christmas, not only by the growing dangers around her, but by thoughts of home. She knew from the letters she received that a proud tree would again adorn the hall and that Bates's trial date had been set for the days just after the holiday. Anna's husband on trial for his life; just the thought gave her goose bumps, for she knew how easily it might be her own husband, albeit in different circumstances. She banished the thought. Increasingly she fought bouts of homesickness as well, longing for her mother's voice or advice, particularly as her pregnancy progressed. She would not admit this to Tom, did not want to give him any further cause to think that she, either pregnant or with a new baby in tow, should quit his side for the safety of Downton. She hoped her longing had not come through in the letter she wrote announcing her pregnancy, for she did not wish them to think she regretted her decision. She did not. She did wonder, more and more frequently, though, how her mother had managed so far from home for so long.

Thoughts of home, of Yorkshire Christmases and proud trees adorning the hall, were near to mind as Sybil readied for Christmas Eve mass. As she and Tom took their place in the pew beside his mother she marveled at the beauty of the greens and sounds of the carols. It was all so similar to home that if she closed her eyes, just for a moment, she could imagine she was back at Downton in the church and with the people she had known all her life. Dear God, she prayed, as the service began, watch over us. Be with Anna and Mama and Papa, be with Bates, but do not forget about us. Guard my husband and keep him from harm, and this child within me. We have all lived through one war already; that should be enough for this lifetime. Please, God, grant us that there should be no more violence, no more death. She did not pray for herself.

The Bransons did not exchange gifts that year, but Tom was good to his word and produced a delectable pudding that left Sybil clapping with joy when she saw it. Mrs. Branson had produced a veritable feast earlier and neither husband nor wife were hungry, but it would have been such a shame not to eat it that they did. Sybil remembered feeling the same way the year before, when Tom had gone to the trouble of procuring some of Mrs. Patmore's pudding, which they shared in the garage.

"I think next year we should eat our pudding before our dinner, Tom."

He laughed.

"Not enough room in your belly for your dinner and your pudding, milady?"

"At least not as much of the pudding as I'd like!"

The last days of the year passed quickly until they were seated in their cozy kitchen for the last meal of the year.

"1920. Can you believe it, Tom?"

"I can't, not really."

"Do you remember the last time the decade turned? It seems impossible that it was 10 years ago, and yet so much has happened that it could have been ten decades."

He thought for a moment, then asked her a question that had been churning through his mind for the past week.

"In 1910, if you could have known what the next decade would bring, would you have? The deaths and destruction, the wars…" he voice trailed off, lost in thought.

"And the love," Sybil added, gently.

"Yes, and the love. But would have you have wanted to know?"

Sybil sat quietly, considering this. Death and destruction, from the Titanic to Dublin to the Spanish Flu and the Western Front, _were_ the order of the day – and the decade – but she was married to the man she loved and would soon become the mother of his child. She had survived. But would she have wanted to know in 1910 the years of grief and hardship that lay ahead and that she would have to survive to get to this place, this New Year's Day?

Slowly, slowly she shook her head from side to side. No, she did not want the future revealed to her, did not what to know what the universe ordained and what crosses she would bear. She wanted only to savor this moment, fully sated from dinner, a mug of steaming tea before her, fat snowflakes swirling outside the window, and her hand held tightly within his.

"I love you, Tom. No matter what happens, I love you."

He motioned for her to rise and swept her toward him. As church bells began to ring, Tom and Sybil Branson waltzed their way into the century's third decade.

* * *

><p>Author's note:<p>

The end.

Thanks to those of you who have read along and offered your comments, thoughts, and suggestions, as I've gone. This story became much longer than I ever expected when I began writing and I don't believe I would have continued it as long as I have were it not for the enthusiastic comments and words of encouragement I received.

After Season 3 (and I'm in the US, so that will be sometime in late winter/early spring of 2013), I will most likely revisit Sybil and Branson, filling in whatever gaps season three does not fill. I may write a story or two revolving around other characters before then, but I have no definite plans to do so.

Finally, for those interested in a deeper look at the times and events described in the last chapters of this fiction, you may wish to read (or at least skim) _Politics and Irish Life, 1913-1921: Provincial Experience of War and Revolution_ by David Fitzpatrick. The BBC is also a rich source of information and I was especially pleased with their collection of articles on the Easter Rising, http:/ www. bbc. co. uk/history/british/easterrising/newspapers/index. shtml. I used many other sources that I did not mention along the way to check facts and verify information. One useful timeline that I did reference quite a bit can be found at http:/ www. dcu. ie /~foxs/irhist/index. htm.


End file.
